travel flowers poem

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18 Poems About Travel to Inspire Your Traveler’s Soul to See the World

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Within the depths of every adventurous spirit lies a yearning for exploration, a longing to traverse the far reaches of the Earth, and a desire to witness the wonders that lie beyond our familiar horizons.

The world is a tapestry of enchanting landscapes, vibrant cultures, and hidden treasures, inviting us to venture forth and embrace its splendor.

Through the evocative power of poetry, let us embark on a journey of inspiration and discovery , as these poems transport us to distant lands, stoke the flames of wanderlust, and awaken the traveler within. So pack your bags, open your heart to the allure of the unknown, and let these verses guide you to see the world with new eyes. Welcome to poems about travel to inspire your traveler’s soul.

The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveler, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,

And having perhaps the better claim,

Because it was grassy and wanted wear;

Though as for that the passing there

Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay

In leaves no step had trodden black.

Oh, I kept the first for another day!

Yet knowing how way leads on to way,

I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost / Poems About Travel

Against the Shore by Atticus

against the shore,

restless like

for any adventure,

that blew along her way

Against the Shore by Atticus / Poems About Travel

The Opportune Moment by Sheenagh Pugh

When you go ashore in that town,

take neither a camera nor a notebook.

However many photographs you upload

of that street, the smell of almond paste

will be missing; the harbour will not sound

of wind slapping on chains. You will read

notes like “Sami church”, later, and know

you saw nothing, never put it where

you could find it again, were never

really there. When you go ashore

in the small port with the rusty trawlers,

there will be fur hawkers who all look

like Genghis Khan on a market stall,

crumbling pavements, roses frozen in bud,

an altar with wool hangings, vessels

like canal ware, a Madonna

with a Russian doll face. When you go

ashore, take nothing but the knowledge

that where you are, you never will be again.

The Opportune Moment by Sheenagh Pugh / Poems About Travel Journeys

A Prayer for Travelers by Anon

May the road rise up to meet you.

May the wind be always at your back.

May the sun shine warm upon your face;

The rains fall soft upon your fields.

And until we meet again,

May God hold you in the palm of His hand.

A Prayer for Travelers by Anon / Travel Poetry

Song of the Open Road by Walt Whitman

Afoot and light-hearted I take to the open road,

Healthy, free, the world before me,

The long brown path before me leading me wherever I choose.

Henceforth I ask not good-fortune, I myself am good-fortune,

Henceforth I whimper no more, postpone no more, need nothing,

Done with indoor complaints, libraries, querulous criticisms,

Strong and content I travel the open road.

Song of the Open Road by Walt Whitman / Poems About Traveling Through Life

Travel by Edna St. Vincent Millay

The railroad track is miles away,

And the day is loud with voices speaking,

Yet there isn’t a train goes by all day

But I hear its whistle shrieking.

All night there isn’t a train goes by,

Though the night is still for sleep and dreaming,

But I see its cinders red on the sky,

And hear its engine steaming.

My heart is warm with the friends I make,

And better friends I’ll not be knowing;

Yet there isn’t a train I wouldn’t take,

No matter where it’s going.

Travel by Edna St. Vincent Millay / Poems About Travel

On the World by Francis Quarles

The world’s an inn; and I her guest.

I eat; I drink; I take my rest.

My hostess, nature, does deny me

Nothing, wherewith she can supply me;

Where, having stayed a while, I pay

Her lavish bills, and go my way.

On the World by Francis Quarles / Poems About Traveling the World

Die Slowly by Martha Medeiros

He who becomes the slave of habit,

who follows the same routes every day,

who never changes pace,

who does not risk and change the color of his clothes,

who does not speak and does not experience,

dies slowly.

He or she who shuns passion,

who prefers black on white,

dotting ones i’s rather than a bundle of emotions, the kind that make your eyes glimmer,

that turn a yawn into a smile,

that make the heart pound in the face of mistakes and feelings,

He or she who does not turn things topsy-turvy,

who is unhappy at work,

who does not risk certainty for uncertainty,

to thus follow a dream,

those who do not forego sound advice at least once in their lives,

die slowly.

He who does not travel, who does not read,

who does not listen to music,

who does not find grace in himself,

she who does not find grace in herself,

He who slowly destroys his own self-esteem,

who does not allow himself to be helped,

who spends days on end complaining about his own bad luck, about the rain that never stops,

He or she who abandons a project before starting it, who fails to ask questions on subjects he doesn’t know, he or she who doesn’t reply when they are asked something they do know,

Let’s try and avoid death in small doses,

reminding oneself that being alive requires an effort far greater than the simple fact of breathing.

Only a burning patience will lead

to the attainment of a splendid happiness

Die Slowly by Martha Medeiros / Poems About Why You Need to Travel

If Once You Have Slept on an Island by Rachel Field

If once you have slept on an island

You’ll never be quite the same;

You may look as you looked the day before

And go by the same old name,

You may bustle about in street and shop;

You may sit at home and sew,

But you’ll see blue water and wheeling gulls

Wherever your feet may go.

You may chat with the neighbors of this and that

And close to your fire keep,

But you’ll hear ship whistle and lighthouse bell

And tides beat through your sleep.

Oh, you won’t know why, and you can’t say how

Such change upon you came,

But – once you have slept on an island

You’ll never be quite the same!

If Once You Have Slept on an Island by Rachel Field / Poems About Travel And How It Changes Us

The Moment by Margaret Atwood

The moment when, after many years

of hard work and a long voyage

you stand in the centre of your room,

house, half-acre, square mile, island, country,

knowing at last how you got there,

and say, I own this,

is the same moment when the trees unloose

their soft arms from around you,

the birds take back their language,

the cliffs fissure and collapse,

the air moves back from you like a wave

and you can’t breathe.

No, they whisper. You own nothing.

You were a visitor, time after time

climbing the hill, planting the flag, proclaiming.

We never belonged to you.

You never found us.

It was always the other way round.

The Moment by Margaret Atwood / Famous Travel Poems

Freedom by Olive Runner

Give me the long, straight road before me,

A clear, cold day with a nipping air,

Tall, bare trees to run on beside me,

A heart that is light and free from care.

Then let me go! – I care not whither

My feet may lead, for my spirit shall be

Free as the brook that flows to the river,

Free as the river that flows to the sea.

Freedom by Olive Runner / Poems About Travel

Poem About Travel by Drewniverses

You are not a tree. You are not bound

to the ground you walk on. You have

wings and dreams and a heart full of

wonder. So pick up your feet and go.

Spread kindness like a wildflower

wherever you go. Fall in love with the

life you live, and always leave people

better than you found them.

Poem About Travel by Drewniverses / Poems About Travel

Traveling by Nayyirah Waheed

be insecure

allow yourself lowness.

know that it is

the way to who you are.

Traveling by Nayyirah Waheed / Poems About Travel and Adventure

P.S. I Love You by H. Jackson Brown

Twenty years from now

You’ll be more disappointed

By the things you didn’t do

Than by the ones you did do.

So throw off the bowlines.

Sail away from the harbor.

Catch the trade winds in your sails.

P.S. I Love You by H. Jackson Brown / Poems About Travel Why You Need to Travel the World

For the Traveler by John O’Donohue

Every time you leave home,

Another road takes you

Into a world you were never in.

New strangers on other paths await.

New places that have never seen you

Will startle a little at your entry.

Old places that know you well

Will pretend nothing

Changed since your last visit.

When you travel, you find yourself

Alone in a different way,

More attentive now

To the self you bring along,

Your more subtle eye watching

You abroad; and how what meets you

Touches that part of the heart

That lies low at home:

How you unexpectedly attune

To the timbre in some voice,

Opening in conversation

You want to take in

To where your longing

Has pressed hard enough

Inward, on some unsaid dark,

To create a crystal of insight

You could not have known

To illuminate

When you travel,

A new silence

Goes with you,

And if you listen,

You will hear

What your heart would

Love to say.

A journey can become a sacred thing:

Make sure, before you go,

To take the time

To bless your going forth,

To free your heart of ballast

So that the compass of your soul

Might direct you toward

The territories of spirit

Where you will discover

More of your hidden life,

And the urgencies

That deserve to claim you.

May you travel in an awakened way,

Gathered wisely into your inner ground;

That you may not waste the invitations

Which wait along the way to transform you.

May you travel safely, arrive refreshed,

And live your time away to its fullest;

Return home more enriched, and free

To balance the gift of days which call you.

For the Traveler by John O’Donohue / Poems About Travel and How It Changes Us

Why Do I Travel? Author Unknown

It is on the road that my inner voice speaks the loudest and my heart beats the strongest.

It is on the road that I take extra pride in my wooly hair, full features and lineage.

It is on the road that I develop extra senses and the hairs on my arms stand up and say “Sana, don’t go there”, and I listen.

It’s when I safety pin my money to my underclothes and count it a million times before I go to sleep,

It is on the road that I am a poet, an ambassador, a dancer, medicine woman, an angel and even a genius.

It’s on the road that I am fearless and unstoppable and if necessary ball up my fist and fight back.

It is on the road that I talk to my deceased parents and they speak back

It’s on the road that I reprimand myself, and set new goals, refuel, stop and begin again.

It is on the road that I experience what freedom truly is.

It is my travel that has transformed me making me a citizen of the world. When my humanness, compassion and affection are raised to a new level and I share unconditionally.

Why Do I Travel? Author Unknown / Poems About Travel

Travel by Robert Louis Stevenson

I should like to rise and go

Where the golden apples grow;—

Where below another sky

Parrot islands anchored lie,

And, watched by cockatoos and goats,

Lonely Crusoes building boats;—

Where in sunshine reaching out

Eastern cities, miles about,

Are with mosque and minaret

Among sandy gardens set,

And the rich goods from near and far

Hang for sale in the bazaar,—

Where the Great Wall round China goes,

And on one side the desert blows,

And with bell and voice and drum

Cities on the other hum;—

Where are forests, hot as fire,

Wide as England, tall as a spire,

Full of apes and cocoa-nuts

And the negro hunters’ huts;—

Where the knotty crocodile

Lies and blinks in the Nile,

And the red flamingo flies

Hunting fish before his eyes;—

Where in jungles, near and far,

Man-devouring tigers are,

Lying close and giving ear

Lest the hunt be drawing near,

Or a comer-by be seen

Swinging in a palanquin;—

Where among the desert sands

Some deserted city stands,

All its children, sweep and prince,

Grown to manhood ages since,

Not a foot in street or house,

Not a stir of child or mouse,

And when kindly falls the night,

In all the town no spark of light.

There I’ll come when I’m a man

With a camel caravan;

Light a fire in the gloom

Of some dusty dining-room;

See the pictures on the walls,

Heroes, fights and festivals;

And in a corner find the toys

Of the old Egyptian boys.

Travel by Robert Louis Stevenson / Poems About Travel

Night Traveler by Deepa Thomas

I am a night traveler

Travel all through the night

And my bed is a sailing boat

I reach for my bed every night

And take a trip places far away

To see new things and people

I travel past the harbors

Full of anchored boats

I travel past the beaches

With swaying coconut trees

I watch the waves

Embracing the shore

I watch the kids playing

And reach out my arms

Then I touch my own bed

Here comes a flash

And my boat is back

And I am back in bed

My boat sails every night

And reach home with morning light

Never did it anchor once

Still traveling every day

Hoping to reach

That unknown destination

Night Travel by Deepa Thomas / Poems About Travel

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10 of the Best Poems about Flowers

By Dr Oliver Tearle (Loughborough University)

Flowers are a perennial theme of poetry. Indeed, the word for a book of poems, ‘anthology’ , even comes from the Greek for ‘flower’.

Given how many classic poems have been written about flowers, it’s difficult to narrow it down to just ten of the best flowery poems – but that is nevertheless what we’ve tried to do below, offering a range of poems (comic, celebratory, romantic, carpe diem ) from different periods of English literature.

1. George Herbert, ‘ A Wreath ’.

A wreathèd garland of deservèd praise, Of praise deservèd, unto Thee I give, I give to Thee, who knowest all my ways, My crooked winding ways, wherein I live,— Wherein I die, not live ; for life is straight, Straight as a line, and ever tends to Thee, To Thee, who art more far above deceit, Than deceit seems above simplicity…

In this poem by one of English literature’s greatest devotional poets , Herbert creatively suggests the shape of a wreath through the rhyme scheme of his poem.

George Herbert (1593-1633) was one of the greatest poets of the seventeenth century and one of a group that Samuel Johnson identified as the ‘Metaphysical poets’. Yet his poems almost died with him in 1633, and it was only thanks to his friend’s sound judgment that they saw the light of day. In this post we sketch out a very brief biography of George Herbert: one of the greatest religious poets of any age.

The progression of the lines in this poem, and its rhyme scheme, both reflect the wreath’s circularity, a symbol of totality and connection. So the movement from one line to next forms a chain: the first line ends with talk of ‘deservèd praise’, so the second line begins by talking about ‘praise deservèd’; this second line in turn ends ‘unto Thee I give’, leading into the third line which begins ‘I give to Thee’; and so on, until we end up where we started, with ‘a crown of praise’ returning us to the first line of the poem, ‘A wreathèd garland of deservèd praise’.

A good poem, all round, we might say. Follow the link above to read the full poem and learn more about it.

2. William Wordsworth, ‘ I wandered lonely as a cloud ’.

Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky way, They stretched in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay: Ten thousand saw I at a glance, Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they Out-did the sparkling waves in glee: A poet could not but be gay, In such a jocund company: I gazed – and gazed – but little thought What wealth the show to me had brought…

Often known simply as ‘The Daffodils’ or ‘Wordsworth’s daffodils poem’, this is also one of the most famous poems of English Romanticism, and sees Wordsworth (1770-1850) celebrating the ‘host of golden daffodils’ he saw while out walking.

The poem was actually a collaboration between Wordsworth, his sister Dorothy (whose notes helped to inspire it), and Wordsworth’s wife, Mary. Follow the link above to read the full poem and learn more about it.

3. Percy Shelley, ‘ The Flower That Smiles To-Day ’.

The flower that smiles to-day To-morrow dies; All that we wish to stay Tempts and then flies. What is this world’s delight? Lightning that mocks the night, Brief even as bright.

This is a poem about the brevity of all things – all hopes, desires, and delights the world has to offer are short-lived and doomed to die. Everything is fleeting and transitory. This argument had been made before Shelley made it: consider Robert Herrick’s famous seventeenth-century poem ‘To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time’ .

Indeed, Shelley’s opening lines seem to be a conscious reworking of Herrick’s: where Shelley writes ‘The flower that smiles today / Tomorrow dies’, Herrick had written that ‘this same flower that smiles today / Tomorrow will be dying.’ See the link above to read the full poem and learn more about it.

4. Alfred, Lord Tennyson, ‘ The Flower ’.

Once in a golden hour I cast to earth a seed. Up there came a flower, The people said, a weed…

A rather Blakean poem, this: a sort of parable in quatrains. Tennyson’s speaker tells how he planted a flower, but other people cursed him and his flower, dismissing it as a weed. However, when the flower grows tall, thieves make off with it. See the link above to read the poem in full.

To paraphrase the meaning of Tennyson’s poem, he’s attacking those critics who scorn his work – likening it to useless and unwanted ‘weeds’ rather than beautiful flowers – because he feels that such critics have forgotten that he was the one who showed so many others how to write poetry.

And yet, does the poem have to be just about poetry itself? Tennyson is using the metaphor of the flower to suggest other forms of creativity: somebody creates something, others criticise it, and yet those same people still learn from what that artist created and copy it, often producing inferior results.

5. A. E. Housman, ‘ The Lent Lily ’.

And there’s the windflower chilly With all the winds at play, And there’s the Lenten lily That has not long to stay And dies on Easter day.

And since till girls go maying You find the primrose still, And find the windflower playing With every wind at will, But not the daffodil…

Another daffodils poem, ‘The Lent Lily’ is from Housman’s popular 1896 collection A Shropshire Lad , which focuses on the daffodil or ‘Lent lily’, so named because it ‘dies on Easter day’. Housman’s poem is shot through with regret and nostalgia, and this poem neatly encapsulates his trademark style and tone. Follow the link above to read the poem in full.

6. Edward Thomas, ‘ Tall Nettles ’.

This corner of the farmyard I like most: As well as any bloom upon a flower I like the dust on the nettles, never lost Except to prove the sweetness of a shower.

Nettles get a bad press from poets, and aren’t as obviously ‘poetic’ as, say, roses or daffodils. Yet in this short poem, Edward Thomas (1878-1917) addresses the hidden beauty and poetry to be found in the tall nettles growing by the tool-shed. See the link above to read the full poem and learn more about it.

7. Robert Frost, ‘ Flower-Gathering ’.

Robert Frost (1874-1963) is regarded as one of the greatest American poets of the twentieth century. In this short poem, Frost – a friend and encourager of Edward Thomas – addresses his wife, who was pregnant with their first child at the time, musing upon the times when he had to leave her at home while he went and gathered flowers for her.

8. William Carlos Williams, ‘ Asphodel, That Greeny Flower ’.

William Carlos Williams (1883-1963) was a prolific American poet whose poems range from the short imagist lyrics which are among his best-known works to longer, more ambitious projects.

As Ann Fisher-Wirth has remarked, this long 1955 poem is a fine affirmation of ‘the power of love in – and against – the nuclear age’. A meditative poem, J. Hillis Miller has called it the ‘extraordinary love poem of Williams’ old age’.

9. Sylvia Plath, ‘ Tulips ’.

The life – and death – of Sylvia Plath (1932-63) can sometimes appear to eclipse her poetic achievement, as well as her achievement in fiction (she wrote one novel, The Bell Jar , as well as a collection of short stories). But this is partly because so much of her work drew on her life for its subject-matter, especially her unflinching analysis of her own struggles with her mental health.

This poem was written in March 1961, apparently after Plath was admitted to hospital for an appendectomy. The view of the world Plath describes in ‘Tulips’ is based around ideas of blankness and emptiness: Plath has, she tells us, given up her clothes to the nurses, her history to the anaesthetist, and her body to the surgeons. Running through the poem is the image of the tulips.

10. Wendy Cope, ‘ Flowers ’.

This concluding poem on this list of the best flower poems is as much a love poem as it is a flower poem, and is as much a comic poem as it is a love poem. The contemporary comic poet Wendy Cope (b. 1945) is very good at sending up the love poem – and perhaps nowhere better than here, where Cope congratulates her lover for … nearly buying her some flowers. If we are supposed to say it with flowers, what did Cope’s lover manage to say here? The thought was there …

And yet the clever thing about this poem is that it remains ambiguous: are we being invited to take the female speaker’s words at face value? In other words, is the fact that the thought was there enough, or is she mocking her other half for his failed attempts at romance and his pathetic excuses for why he never treats her to anything?

The final image in the poem, of those flowers he nearby bought (but didn’t) lasting all this while, can arguably be read as both touchingly forgiving and bitingly judgmental.

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Poetry About Travel: 21 Most Inspiring Travel Poems

Are you looking for beautiful poetry about travel? Then you have come to the right place! This post features some of the most inspiring travel poems out there.

Travel experiences are often shared in blog posts, videos, books, songs or quotes , but poetry about travel is a bit harder to find. Poetry is a beautiful way to capture how travel makes us feel though, and there are some amazing poems about travel and adventure out there!

I collected 21 of the most beautiful travelling poems in this post. Let me know in the comments if you think there’s a beautiful poem that’s missing from this list, as I’m updating it frequently!

Poetry About Travel: The Most Beautiful Travel Poems

1. The Farewell by Kahlil Gibran

Even though the poetry about travel in this list is in no particular order, the first poem I had to think of was The Farewell by Kahlil Gibran (1883-1931). This beautiful poem can be found in Gibran’s book The Prophet , which is one of the most translated books in history.

I only included my favourite part in this post, as the poem is quite long, but you can read the full version on the link below.

We wanderers, ever seeking the lonelier way, begin no day where we have ended another day; and no sunrise finds us where sunset left us. Even while the earth sleeps we travel. We are the seeds of the tenacious plant, and it is in our ripeness and our fullness of heart that we are given to the wind and are scattered.

Read the full version of Farewell here

2. Freedom by Olive Runner

This short but powerful travel poem by Olive Runner embraces the feeling of freedom that can be found in travelling. It’s one of the most inspiring poems about exploring the world.

Give me the long, straight road before me, A clear, cold day with a nipping air, Tall, bare trees to run on beside me, A heart that is light and free from care. Then let me go! – I care not whither My feet may lead, for my spirit shall be Free as the brook that flows to the river, Free as the river that flows to the sea.

3. Song of the Open Road by Walt Whitman

The main themes in Whitman’s (1819-1892) Song of the Open Road are freedom, joy and independence. This piece of travel poetry inspires us to be free from expectations, follow our own path and enjoy life – it holds a very beautiful message if you’re asking me!

Afoot and light-hearted I take to the open road, Healthy, free, the world before me,

The long brown path before me leading wherever I choose.

Henceforth I ask not good-fortune, I myself am good-fortune, Henceforth I whimper no more, postpone no more, need nothing, Done with indoor complaints, libraries, querulous criticisms, Strong and content I travel the open road.

The earth, that is sufficient, I do not want the constellations any nearer, I know they are very well where they are, I know they suffice for those who belong to them.

4. A Song of Joys by Walt Whitman

You can find the last part of A Song of Joys by Walt Whitman (1819-1892) below. In this poem, Whitman describes different types of people and what brings joy to them. The last part speaks about the joy of travelling and exploring.

You can find the entire poem on the link below if you want to read the entire piece.

O to sail in a ship, To leave this steady unendurable land, To leave the tiresome sameness of the streets, the sidewalks and the houses, To leave you, O you solid motionless land, and entering a ship, To sail and sail and sail! O to have my life henceforth a poem of new joys! To dance, clap hands, exult, shout, skip, leap, roll on, float on, To be a sailor of the world, bound for all ports, A ship itself, (see indeed these sails I spread to the sun and air,) A swift and swelling ship, full of rich words—full of joys.

Read the full version here

5. Travelling Again by Du Fu

Often called “the Poet-Historian”, Du Fu (712-770 AD) is considered one of the greatest Chinese poets. His poem Traveling Again was written in 761 AD, which makes it the oldest of the travelling poems on this list. Fu wrote it during his second visit to a temple in a turbulent time for his country.

Temple remember once travel place Bridge remember again cross time River mountain like waiting Flower willow become selfless Country vivid mist shine thin Sand soft sun colour late Traveller sorrow all become decrease Stay here again what this

I remember the temple, this route I’ve travelled before, I recall the bridge as I cross it again. It seems the hills and rivers have been waiting, The flowers and willows all are selfless now. The field is sleek and vivid, thin mist shines, On soft sand, the sunlight’s colour shows it’s late. All the traveller’s sorrow fades away, What better place to rest than this?

6. Hearthside by Dorothy Parker

In Hearthside by Dorothy Parker (1893-1967), someone is sitting by a fire and thinking about all the places they will never see. It’s a touching piece of travel poetry that makes you dream about visiting places you haven’t been to (yet).

Half across the world from me Lie the lands I’ll never see- I, whose longing lives and dies Where a ship has sailed away; I, that never close my eyes But to look upon Cathay.

Things I may not know nor tell Wait, where older waters swell; Ways that flowered at Sappho’s tread, Winds that sighed in Homer’s strings, Vibrant with the singing dead, Golden with the dust of wings.

Under deeper skies than mine, Quiet valleys dip and shine. Where their tender grasses heal Ancient scars of trench and tomb I shall never walk: nor kneel Where the bones of poets bloom.

If I seek a lovelier part, Where I travel goes my heart; Where I stray my thought must go; With me wanders my desire. Best to sit and watch the snow, Turn the lock, and poke the fire.

7. The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost

A list full of poetry about travel wouldn’t be complete without The Road Not Taken . This deep poem by Robert Frost (1874-1963) talks about how the choices we make, no matter how small they may seem, can impact and shape our lives.

This is one of the most famous poems in the world, where the speaker chooses to take the “road less travelled by”. He/she doesn’t choose the life most people choose and thanks to this, the speaker of this poem is often celebrated for their individualism.

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both And be one traveler, long I stood And looked down one as far as I could To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair, And having perhaps the better claim, Because it was grassy and wanted wear; Though as for that the passing there Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay In leaves no step had trodden black. Oh, I kept the first for another day! Yet knowing how way leads on to way, I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh Somewhere ages and ages hence: Two roads diverged in a wood, and I— I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference.

8. Eldorado by Edgar Allan Poe

Edgar Allan Poe (1809-1849) was my favourite poet as a teenager, and he’s still one of my favourite poets today. It’s believed that Eldorado is one of his last poems, as he wrote it six months before his death.

Eldorado tells the story of a knight who travels in search of a city of gold. According to scholars, parallels can be seen between the knight’s quest in this poem and Poe’s quest to find happiness in his life.

Gaily bedight, A gallant knight, In sunshine and in shadow, Had journeyed long, Singing a song, In search of Eldorado. But he grew old – This knight so bold – And o’er his heart a shadow Fell, as he found No spot of ground That looked like Eldorado. And, as his strength Failed him at length, He met a pilgrim shadow – ‘Shadow,’ said he, ‘Where can it be – This land of Eldorado?’ ‘Over the Mountains Of the Moon, Down the Valley of the Shadow, Ride, boldly ride,’ The shade replied, ‘If you seek for Eldorado!’

9. Rootless by Jenny Xie

In Rootless , Jenny Xie describes what she sees on a sleeper train between Hanoi and Sapa in Vietnam. The landscapes around the speaker constantly change while he/she is the only constant.

Between Hanoi and Sapa there are clean slabs of rice fields and no two brick houses in a row.

I mean, no three— See, counting’s hard in half-sleep, and the rain pulls a sheet

over the sugar palms and their untroubled leaves. Hours ago, I crossed a motorbike with a hog strapped to its seat,

the size of a date pit from a distance. Can this solitude be rootless, unhooked from the ground?

No matter. The mind resides both inside and out. It can think itself and think itself into existence.

I sponge off the eyes, no worse for wear. My frugal mouth spends the only foreign words it owns.

At present, on this sleeper train, there’s nowhere to arrive. Me? I’m just here in my traveller’s clothes, trying on each passing town for size.

10. Travel by Robert Louis Stevenson

This travel poem by Robert Louis Stevenson (1850-1894) talks about the dreams and ambitions of a young boy who wants to travel around the world when he grows up. It’s part of Stevenson’s collection A Child’s Garden of Verses .

I should like to rise and go Where the golden apples grow;— Where below another sky Parrot islands anchored lie, And, watched by cockatoos and goats, Lonely Crusoes building boats;— Where in sunshine reaching out Eastern cities, miles about, Are with mosque and minaret Among sandy gardens set, And the rich goods from near and far Hang for sale in the bazaar,— Where the Great Wall round China goes, And on one side the desert blows, And with bell and voice and drum Cities on the other hum;— Where are forests, hot as fire, Wide as England, tall as a spire, Full of apes and cocoa-nuts And the negro hunters’ huts;— Where the knotty crocodile Lies and blinks in the Nile, And the red flamingo flies Hunting fish before his eyes;— Where in jungles, near and far, Man-devouring tigers are, Lying close and giving ear Lest the hunt be drawing near, Or a comer-by be seen Swinging in a palanquin;— Where among the desert sands Some deserted city stands, All its children, sweep and prince, Grown to manhood ages since, Not a foot in street or house, Not a stir of child or mouse, And when kindly falls the night, In all the town no spark of light. There I’ll come when I’m a man With a camel caravan; Light a fire in the gloom Of some dusty dining-room; See the pictures on the walls, Heroes, fights and festivals; And in a corner find the toys Of the old Egyptian boys.

Drinking a cocktail at Lake Atitlan in Guatemala

11. Dislocation by Simon Constam

Simon Constam wrote this beautiful travel poem during his round-the-world trip when he was 19. It’s about the difference between travelling long term and going on a holiday, which are two different things.

Long-term travel comes with its difficulties and challenges, and it’s different from vacationing.

I envy those who envy me for traveling. Sometimes I sit on a foreign street in a busy cafe, imagining you wishing you were here, feeling for the first time the thrilling flush of wanting to be elsewhere, the frisson of happiness that wishes bring. And so I sit quietly knowing that now it’s time to figure out just what it is I meant to do here.

Valbona Pass hiking in the Accursed Mountains of Albania

12. Questions of travel by Elizabeth Bishop

In the poem Questions of Travel , Elizabeth Bishop (1911-1979) touches on subjects like travel, home, conflict and regret. This piece of travel poetry is one that depicts the pros and cons of travelling, and why we do it.

There are too many waterfalls here; the crowded streams hurry too rapidly down to the sea, and the pressure of so many clouds on the mountaintops makes them spill over the sides in soft slow-motion, turning to waterfalls under our very eyes. –For if those streaks, those mile-long, shiny, tearstains, aren’t waterfalls yet, in a quick age or so, as ages go here, they probably will be. But if the streams and clouds keep travelling, travelling, the mountains look like the hulls of capsized ships, slime-hung and barnacled.

Think of the long trip home. Should we have stayed at home and thought of here? Where should we be today? Is it right to be watching strangers in a play in this strangest of theatres? What childishness is it that while there’s a breath of life in our bodies, we are determined to rush to see the sun the other way around? The tiniest green hummingbird in the world? To stare at some inexplicable old stonework, inexplicable and impenetrable, at any view, instantly seen and always, always delightful? Oh, must we dream our dreams and have them, too? And have we room for one more folded sunset, still quite warm?

But surely it would have been a pity not to have seen the trees along this road, really exaggerated in their beauty, not to have seen them gesturing like noble pantomimists, robed in pink. –Not to have had to stop for gas and heard the sad, two-noted, wooden tune of disparate wooden clogs carelessly clacking over a grease-stained filling-station floor. (In another country the clogs would all be tested. Each pair there would have identical pitch.) –A pity not to have heard the other, less primitive music of the fat brown bird who sings above the broken gasoline pump in a bamboo church of Jesuit baroque: three towers, five silver crosses. –Yes, a pity not to have pondered, blurr’dly and inconclusively, on what connection can exist for centuries between the crudest wooden footwear and, careful and finicky, the whittled fantasies of wooden footwear and, careful and finicky, the whittled fantasies of wooden cages. –Never to have studied history in the weak calligraphy of songbirds’ cages. –And never to have had to listen to rain so much like politicians’ speeches: two hours of unrelenting oratory and then a sudden golden silence in which the traveller takes a notebook, writes:

“Is it lack of imagination that makes us come to imagined places, not just stay at home? Or could Pascal have been not entirely right about just sitting quietly in one’s room?

Continent, city, country, society: the choice is never wide and never free. And here, or there . . . No. Should we have stayed at home, wherever that may be?”

Boddhanath Stupa one of the most famous landmarks in Asia

13. For the Traveler by John O’Donohue

In For the Traveler , John O’Donohue (1956-2008) describes how travelling can change us, and how enriching it is. This poem is about exploring, going on a journey and coming back as a different person – something I can relate to!

Every time you leave home, Another road takes you Into a world you were never in.

New strangers on other paths await. New places that have never seen you Will startle a little at your entry. Old places that know you well Will pretend nothing Changed since your last visit.

When you travel, you find yourself Alone in a different way, More attentive now To the self you bring along, Your more subtle eye watching You abroad; and how what meets you Touches that part of the heart That lies low at home:

How you unexpectedly attune To the timbre in some voice, Opening in conversation You want to take in To where your longing Has pressed hard enough Inward, on some unsaid dark, To create a crystal of insight You could not have known You needed To illuminate Your way.

When you travel, A new silence Goes with you, And if you listen, You will hear What your heart would Love to say.

A journey can become a sacred thing: Make sure, before you go, To take the time To bless your going forth, To free your heart of ballast So that the compass of your soul Might direct you toward The territories of spirit Where you will discover More of your hidden life, And the urgencies That deserve to claim you.

May you travel in an awakened way, Gathered wisely into your inner ground; That you may not waste the invitations Which wait along the way to transform you.

May you travel safely, arrive refreshed, And live your time away to its fullest; Return home more enriched, and free To balance the gift of days which call you.

14. The Return by Geneen Marie Haugen

Similarly to For the Traveler (#13 on this list), The Return speaks about coming back from a journey as a different person. The difference, however, is that this poem focuses on other people’s points of view, including people’s prejudice and expectations.

Some day, if you are lucky, you’ll return from a thunderous journey trailing snake scales, wing fragments and the musk of Earth and moon .

Eyes will examine you for signs of damage, or change and you, too, will wonder if your skin shows traces

of fur, or leaves, if thrushes have built a nest of your hair, if Andromeda burns from your eyes.

Do not be surprised by prickly questions from those who barely inhabit their own fleeting lives, who barely taste their own possibility, who barely dream.

If your hands are empty, treasureless, if your toes have not grown claws, if your obedient voice has not become a wild cry, a howl,

you will reassure them. We warned you, they might declare, there is nothing else, no point, no meaning, no mystery at all, just this frantic waiting to die.

And yet, they tremble, mute, afraid you’ve returned without sweet elixir for unspeakable thirst, without a fluent dance or holy language to teach them, without a compass bearing to a forgotten border where no one crosses without weeping for the terrible beauty of galaxies

and granite and bone. They tremble, hoping your lips hold a secret, that the song your body now sings will redeem them, yet they fear

your secret is dangerous, shattering, and once it flies from your astonished mouth, they — like you — must disintegrate before unfolding tremulous wings.

Landscapes from the train with a Buddhist monk

15. Travel by Edna St. Vincent Millay

In this beautiful piece of travel poetry by Edna St. Vincent Millay (1892 – 1950), the narrator longs to escape from their everyday life. They hear how the train goes by in the distance and dream about how it could take them somewhere new.

The railroad track is miles away, And the day is loud with voices speaking, Yet there isn’t a train goes by all day But I hear its whistle shrieking.

All night there isn’t a train goes by, Though the night is still for sleep and dreaming, But I see its cinders red on the sky, And hear its engine steaming.

My heart is warm with the friends I make, And better friends I’ll not be knowing, Yet there isn’t a train I wouldn’t take, No matter where it’s going.

16. Traveling by Nayyirah Waheed

Nayyirah Waheed has been described as “the most famous poet on Instagram”, as her poems are frequently shared on this platform.

Apart from her poems, not much is known about Waheed. She doesn’t reveal many details about her life and describes herself as a “quiet poet” – which is quite fascinating! Waheed’s poem Traveling is a beautiful example of her repertoire.

be insecure in peace. allow yourself lowness. know that it is only a country on the way to who you are.

17. On the World by Francis Quarles

On the World is another short and beautiful travel poem that describes the life of a traveller.

The world’s an Inn; and I her guest. I eat; I drink; I take my rest. My hostess, nature, does deny me Nothing, wherewith she can supply me; Where, having stayed a while, I pay Her lavish bills, and go my way.

Hawa Mahal, one of the most beautiful monuments in Jaipur

18. Why Do I Travel by an unknown author

If you love traveling, you might relate to this poem which explains why the author travels. This piece is about what travel is all about, the adventure and the lessons it brings.

It is on the road that my inner voice speaks the loudest and my heart beats the strongest. It is on the road that I take extra pride in my wooly hair, full features and lineage. It is on the road that I develop extra senses and the hairs on my arms stand up and say “Sana, don’t go there”, and I listen. It’s when I safety pin my money to my underclothes and count it a million times before I go to sleep. It is on the road that I am a poet, an ambassador, a dancer, medicine woman, an angel and even a genius. It’s on the road that I am fearless and unstoppable and if necessary ball up my fist and fight back. It is on the road that I talk to my deceased parents and they speak back. It’s on the road that I reprimand myself, and set new goals, refuel, stop and begin again. It is on the road that I experience what freedom truly is. It is my travel that has transformed me making me a citizen of the world. When my humanness, compassion and affection are raised to a new level and I share unconditionally.

19. If Once You’ve Slept on an Island by Rachel Field

This beautiful poem talks about how travel changes you and how you will not be the same after sleeping on an island.

If once you have slept on an island You’ll never be quite the same; You may look as you looked the day before And go by the same old name, You may bustle about in street and shop You may sit at home and sew, But you’ll see blue water and wheeling gulls Wherever your feet may go. You may chat with the neighbors of this and that And close to your fire keep, But you’ll hear ship whistle and lighthouse bell And tides beat through your sleep. Oh! you won’t know why and you can’t say how Such a change upon you came, But once you have slept on an island, You’ll never be quite the same.

Woman sitting in frong of a lake with mountains in the back.

20. Die Slowly by Martha Medeiros

Although this poem covers more than travel alone, it’s incredibly relatable!

He who does not travel, who does not read, who can not hear music, who does not find grace in himself, she who does not find grace in herself, dies slowly.

He who slowly destroys his own self-esteem, who does not allow himself to be helped, who spends days on end complaining about his own bad luck, about the rain that never stops, dies slowly.

The Taj Mahal during sunrise. This is one of the most famous landmarks in Asia. It shows the front of the Taj Mahal and the sky is pink and yellow.

21. Oh, the Places You’ll Go by Dr. Seuss

This is another one of my favourite poems about travelling. It was written for the children’s book “Oh, the Places You’ll Go”, which was published in 1990.

Oh, the Places You’ll Go!

Congratulations! Today is your day. You’re off to Great Places! You’re off and away!

You have brains in your head. You have feet in your shoes You can steer yourself Any direction you choose. You’re on your own. And you know what you know. And YOU are the guy who’ll decide where to go.

>> Read the full Dr. Seuss poem here

Poetry About Travel: Final Thoughts

And that was it, 21 of the best travel poems out there! I hope that you have found exactly what you were looking for in this list of travel poetry and that it gave you some inspiration.

I’m curious to hear what your favourite poem about travel is (mine are #1, #7 and 21)! Or did you come across other beautiful poetry about travel that’s not on this list? Let me know in the comments as I’m updating this post frequently.

Find more travel inspiration in the posts below:

56 Songs About Travel
21 Movies About Nomads
50 Solo Travel Quotes

Pin it for later: Did you find this post helpful? Save it on Pinterest and follow me on Instagram and Facebook for more travel tips and inspiration.

Laura Meyers

Laura Meyers is the founder of Laure Wanders. She was born in Belgium and has travelled to over 40 countries, many of them solo. She currently spends most of her time between Belgium and South Asia and loves helping other travellers plan their adventures abroad.

10 Beautiful Travel Poems For The Adventurer In You

Travel poems breathe wanderlust into words. Here are ten beautiful travel poems for the adventurer in you.

Disclosure: Heads up, this post contains affiliate links, which means Passport To Eden may get a commission (at no extra cost to you) if you make an online purchase. Don’t feel pressured to buy anything. We still love that you’re here, reading our content (side note: we suggest getting a coffee or tea first because our blog posts tend to be long). You can read our full affiliate disclosure here to find out more.

Table of Contents

A Travel Poem For The Girl With Itchy Feet

against the shore,

restless like

for any adventure,

that blew along her way

– Atticus

A Travel Poem For The One On A Journey. Any Journey.

Afoot and light-hearted I take to the open road,

Healthy, free, the world before me,

The long brown path before me leading me wherever I choose,

Henceforth I ask not good-fortune, I myself am good-fortune,

Henceforth I whimper no more, postpone no more, need nothing,

Done with indoor complaints, libraries, querulous criticisms,

Strong and content I travel the open road.

– Walt Whitman, from Song of the Open Road

A Travel Poem That Sums Up Adventure In Four Gorgeous Lines

My heart is warm with the friends I make,

And better friends I’ll not be knowing,

Yet there isn’t a train I wouldn’t take,

No matter where it’s going.

– Edna St. Vincent Millay, from Travel

A Travel Poem From Margaret Atwood Because She Never Disappoints

No, they whisper. You own nothing.

You were a visitor, time after time

climbing the hill, planting the flag, proclaiming.

We never belong to you.

You never found us.

It was always the other way around.

– Margaret Atwood, from The Moment

This Travel Poem Is Just Everything

You are not a tree. You are not bound

to the ground you walk on. You have

wings and dreams and a heart full of

wonder. So pick up your feet and go.

Spread kindness like a wildflower

wherever you go. Fall in love with the

life you live, and always leave people

better than you found them.

– Drewniverses, from Tumblr

This 19th Century Travel Poem Is Just. So. Good.

Half across the world from me

Lie the lands I’ll never see- I, whose longing lives and dies Where a ship has sailed away; I, that never close my eyes But to look upon Cathay.

Under deeper skies than mine, Quiet valleys dip and shine. Where their tender grasses heal Ancient scars of trench and tomb I shall never walk: nor kneel Where the bones of poets bloom.

If I seek a lovelier part, Where I travel goes my heart; Where I stray my thought must go; With me wanders my desire. Best to sit and watch the snow, Turn the lock, and poke the fire.

– Dorothy Parker, from Hearthside

If Only I Could Swallow This Modern Travel Poem

be insecure

allow yourself lowness.

know that it is

the way to who you are.

– Nayyirah Waheed, from Traveling

Then, There’s This Transcendent Travel Poem

my eyes will remember

how to love the world

under changing skies.

when the light changes,

so does the view.

– Lindsay O’Connell

And This One

Somedays, I grow tired of life,

and long, for the next great adventure.

Finally, If You’re Waiting To Pack Your Bags And Go…

Twenty years from now

You’ll be more disappointed

By the things you didn’t do

Than by the ones you did do.

So throw off the bowlines.

Sail away from the harbor.

Catch the trade winds in your sails.

– H. Jackson Brown, from P.S. I Love You (well, sort of. It’s a quote from his mother).

Did you enjoy these travel poems? Let me know in the comments below which one of these travel poems was your favorite! Mine is definitely #5, but I love them all!

FOR THOSE WHO LOVE POETRY

PENGUIN CLASSICS

Complete Poems

Dorothy Parker’s poem is our favorite on this list. If you loved it as much as we did, here’s a complete collection of her works

APPLEWOOD BOOKS

Song Of The Open Road

a hardcover edition of Walt Whitman’s poem about journeying, adventure, and finding yourself

ATRIA BOOKS

The Dark Between Stars

for those who devoured Milk & Honey and Pillow Thoughts and want to read Atticus’ contribution to the Insta-popular poetry format

Editor-In-Chief

Anshula grew up with a love of stories and places. Thirty-five states and 100 bookstores later, she's made her hobbit home in Middle Tennessee. Her Tookish side still takes over and leaves her chasing window seats, literary destinations, adventure books, sunrise coffee, and indie bookshops. She's appeared as a travel source on HuffPost, Reader's Digest, and MSN.

20 YA Travel Books For The Adventurer In You

Inspiring Travel Quotes – Just Grab Your Passport And Go

Funny Travel Quotes (That Are Laughably Relatable)

20 Travel Proverbs From Around The World

7 Reasons Why I Travel

21 Best Travel Souvenir Ideas

I love Atticus.

How beautiful, Anshula! These are so inspiring.

Dee ~ Vanilla Papers

I love these, thanks. Time to share to my friends on FB!

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Take a poetry road trip across the United States and abroad with this curated collection of poems about vacation and travel, videos on poetic trips and poets abroad, poetry landmarks, walking tours, featured poetry books for literary travelers, and postcards from poets on summer vacations.

“ If You Get There Before I Do ” by Dick Allen Air out the linens, unlatch the shutters on the eastern side …

“ Flying ” by Sarah Arvio One said to me tonight or was it day …

“ Passing Through Albuquerque ” by John Balaban At dusk, by the irrigation ditch …

“ Looking for The Gulf Motel ” by Richard Blanco There should be nothing here I don’t remember …

“ Return to Florence ” by Cyrus Cassells How do I convey the shoring gold …

“ Vacation ” by Rita Dove I love the hour before takeoff …

“ Cattails ” by Nikky Finney One woman drives across five states just to see her …

“ Self-Portrait on the Street of an Unnamed Foreign City ” by Jennifer Grotz The lettering on the shop window in which …

“ Go Greyhound ” by Bob Hicok A few hours after Des Moines …

“ Spain ” by Major Jackson Beneath canopies of green, unionists marched doggedly …

“ Riding Alone for Thousands of Miles ” by Sally Wen Mao In Lijiang, the sign outside your hostel …

“ The Road from Biloxi ” by Khaled Mattawa Qader blew at a cigarette, stuck his head …

“ Travel ” by Edna St. Vincent Millay The railroad track is miles away …

“ Window Seat: Providence to New York City ” by Jacqueline Osherow My sixteenth …

“ Window ” by Carl Sandburg Night from a railroad car window …

“ Crostatas ” by Charlie Smith in rome I got down among the weeds and tiny perfumed …

“ Travel ” by Robert Louis Stevenson I should like to rise and go …

browse more poems about travel

browse more poems about vacations

browse more videos

Death, Be Not Proud: The Graves of Poets

Take a trip across the United States—with some trips abroad as well—and visit the resting places of several renowned poets with this listing of the graves of poets. Then visit the following poetry landmarks—from Langston Hughes’s hometown to the White Horse Tavern—across the United States.

The Poetry Walk in Berkeley, CA

The City Lights Bookstore in San Francisco, CA

The Poet Homes of Key West, FL

The Green Mill Cocktail Lounge in Chicago, IL

Langston Hughes’s Hometown of Lawrence, KS

Robert Penn Warren Birthplace Museum in Guthrie, KY

McLean Hospital in Belmont, MA

The George Edward Woodberry Poetry Room in Cambridge, MA

The Search for Anne Bradstreet in Essex County, MA

Edna St. Vincent Millay’s Hometown of Camden, ME

Robert Hayden’s Bus Route in Ann Arbor, MI

The Dixon Bar in Dixon, MT

George Moses Horton’s Hometown in Chatham County, NC

William Carlos Williams’ Hometown of Rutherford, NJ

The Brooklyn Bridge in Brooklyn, NY

The White Horse Tavern in New York, NY

The California Gulch Trail in La Grande, OR

James Wright’s Hometown of Martins Ferry, OH

The Marianne Moore Collection at the Rosenbach Museum & Library in Philadelphia, PA

Poets Via Post

Check out these summer postcards from poets across the U.S.

Robin Becker; postmarked July 2011, New Hampshire

Brenda Hillman; postmarked July 2011, California

Dana Levin; postmarked July 2011, New Mexico

Sharon Olds; postmarked July 2011, New Hampshire

browse more postcards

Walking Tours

Walt Whitman’s Printing House Square in New York City

Walt Whitman’s SoHo Historic District in New York City

Edgar Allan Poe’s Publishers Row in New York City

Herman Melville’s Downtown New York City

Langston Hughes’s Harlem of 1926

The Wallace Stevens Walk in Connecticut

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Academy of American Poets Educator Newsletter
Teach This Poem

The best poems on travel

Discover some of the best poems about travel including verses from thomas hardy, walt whitman and edgar allan poe..

Here, we have gathered some of the greatest poems written about the allure of travel, and the wonders that can be discovered when we venture beyond our own doorsteps.

Discover our edit of the best poetry books.

From The Silverado Squatters

There are no foreign lands. It is the traveller only who is foreign.

Robert Louis Stevenson (1850–1894)

A Prayer for Travellers

May the road rise up to meet you.

May the wind be always at your back.

May the sun shine warm upon your face;

The rains fall soft upon your fields.

And until we meet again,

May God hold you in the palm of His hand.

On the World

The world’s an inn; and I her guest.

I eat; I drink; I take my rest.

My hostess, nature, does deny me

Nothing, wherewith she can supply me;

Where, having stayed a while, I pay

Her lavish bills, and go my way.

Francis Quarles (1592–1644)

If Once You Have Slept on an Island

If once you have slept on an island

You’ll never be quite the same;

You may look as you looked the day before

And go by the same old name,

You may bustle about in street and shop;

You may sit at home and sew,

But you’ll see blue water and wheeling gulls

Wherever your feet may go.

You may chat with the neighbors of this and that

And close to your fire keep,

But you’ll hear ship whistle and lighthouse bell

And tides beat through your sleep.

Oh, you won’t know why, and you can’t say how

Such change upon you came,

But – once you have slept on an island

You’ll never be quite the same!

Rachel Field (1894–1942)

Gaily bedight,

A gallant knight,

In sunshine and in shadow,

Had journeyed long,

Singing a song,

In search of Eldorado.

But he grew old –

This knight so bold –

And o’er his heart a shadow

Fell, as he found

No spot of ground

That looked like Eldorado.

And, as his strength

Failed him at length,

He met a pilgrim shadow –

‘Shadow,’ said he,

‘Where can it be –

This land of Eldorado?’

‘Over the Mountains

Of the Moon,

Down the Valley of the Shadow,

Ride, boldly ride,’

The shade replied,

‘If you seek for Eldorado!’

Edgar Allan Poe (1809–1849)

I met a traveller from an antique land

Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone

Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,

Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,

And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command

Tell that its sculptor well those passions read

Which yet survive (stamped on these lifeless things)

The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed:

And on the pedestal these words appear:

‘My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings:

Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!’

Nothing beside remains. Round the decay

Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare

The lone and level sands stretch far away.

Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792–1822)

A Strip of Blue

I do not own an inch of land,

But all I see is mine, –

The orchard and the mowing fields,

The lawns and gardens fine.

The winds my tax-collectors are,

They bring me tithes divine, –

Wild scents and subtle essences,

A tribute rare and free;

And, more magnificent than all,

My window keeps for me

A glimpse of blue immensity, –

A little strip of sea.

Richer am I than he who owns

Great fleets and argosies;

I have a share in every ship

Won by the inland breeze,

To loiter on yon airy road

Above the apple-trees,

I freight them with my untold dreams;

Each bears my own picked crew;

And nobler cargoes wait for them

Than ever India knew, –

My ships that sail into the East

Across that outlet blue.

Sometimes they seem like living shapes, –

The people of the sky, –

Guests in white raiment coming down

From heaven, which is close by;

I call them by familiar names,

As one by one draws nigh,

So white, so light, so spirit-like,

From violet mists they bloom!

The aching wastes of the unknown

Are half reclaimed from gloom,

Since on life’s hospitable sea

All souls find sailing-room.

The ocean grows a weariness

With nothing else in sight;

Its east and west, its north and south,

Spread out from morn till night;

We miss the warm, caressing shore,

Its brooding shade and light.

Lucy Larcom (1824–1893)

O to sail in a ship,

To leave this steady unendurable land,

To leave the tiresome sameness of the streets,

the sidewalks and the houses,

To leave you, O you solid motionless land, and

entering a ship,

To sail and sail and sail!

Walt Whitman (1819–1892)

Midnight on the Great Western

In the third-class sat the journeying boy,

And the roof-lamp’s oily flame

Played down on his listless form and face,

Bewrapt past knowing to what he was going,

Or whence he came.

In the band of his hat the journeying boy

Had a ticket stuck; and a string

Around his neck bore the key of his box,

That twinkled gleams of the lamp’s sad beams

Like a living thing.

What past can be yours, O journeying boy,

Towards a world unknown,

Who calmly, as if incurious quite

On all at stake, can undertake

This plunge alone?

Knows your soul a sphere, O journeying boy,

Our rude realms far above,

Whence with spacious vision you mark and mete

This region of sin that you find you in

But are not of?

Thomas Hardy (1840–1928)

Give me the long, straight road before me,

A clear, cold day with a nipping air,

Tall, bare trees to run on beside me,

A heart that is light and free from care.

Then let me go! – I care not whither

My feet may lead, for my spirit shall be

Free as the brook that flows to the river,

Free as the river that flows to the sea.

Olive Runner

Poems for Travellers

By gaby morgan.

Poems for Travellers is part of the Macmillan Collector’s Library, with an introduction from the esteemed travel writer Paul Theroux. From Walt Whitman to Christina Rossetti, this collection contains some of the finest poems ever written about travel.

Flower Poems

Poems by flower, table of contents, types of flowers.

To the Cornflower by Annette Wynne
The Anemone by Hannah Flagg Gould
My Lady Anemone by John Jarvis Holden
Columbine by John Burroughs
The Columbine by Jones Very
Blue Hyacinths by Adelaide Crapsey
The Blue Gentians by Edward Ryan Woodle
Fringed Gentian by Emily Dickinson
The Ground Laurel by Hannah Flagg Gould
The Lost Hyacinth by Hannah Flagg Gould
My nosegays are for captives by Emily Dickinson
Neighbor Chickory by Anonymous
Spear Thistle by John Clare
Bloodroot by Bliss Carman
A Lotus Bloom by John B. Tabb
Hepatica by John Burroughs
Red Carnations by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Milkweed by Helen Hunt Jackson
The Jasmine by Ruby Archer

Spring Flowers

The Waking Year by Emily Dickinson
May-Flower by Emily Dickinson
The Sleeping Flowers by Emily Dickinson
Resurrection by Sir Charles George Douglas Roberts
The Jonquil by Sir Charles George Douglas Roberts
March and April by Annette Wynne

More Poems About Flowers

The Flower by Eliza Wolcott
How the Flowers Grow by Gabriel Setoun
The Poor Little Rich Flower by Annette Wynne
With Flowers by Emily Dickinson
Roadside Flowers by Bliss Carman
The Bee and the Blossoms by John B. Tabb
The Fear of Flowers by John Clare
The Seedling by Laurence Dunbar
Pretty Flower by Raymond Garfield Dandridge
The White Flower by Hannah Flagg Gould
The Flowers in the Cemetery by Hannah Flagg Gould
With a Flower by Emily Dickinson
To The Bee Balm by John Burroughs
The Cardinal Flower by John Burroughs
Seed-Time by John B. Tabb
Song by Emily Dickinson
A Cavalcade by John B. Tabb
As children bid the guest good-night by Emily Dickinson
Possession by Emily Dickinson
The Autumn Thistles by Sir Charles George Douglas Roberts
Flowers by F.J. Schwab
The Prostrate Pink by Hannah Flagg Gould
The Death of the Flowers by William Cullen Bryant
A Laughing Chorus by Anonymous
Trailing Arbutus by John Greenleaf Whittier
The Reunion of the Flowers by Kate Slaughter McKinney
Contentment by John E. Everett
White Foxglove by Grace Hazard Conkling
Flowers Laugh and Talk and Play by Annette Wynne
I Wonder Did Each Flower Know? by Annette Wynne
Flower-music by Ruby Archer
The Grassy-Meadow-School by Annette Wynne

To the Cornflower

How smiling, how wondering, the cornflower's eyes, Looking at me joyously in flower-surprise, Glad as June's sunshine, bright as her skies. Let me have and hold you all the day through, Darling little comrade, blue as bluest blue, You're the sky's own sister, yet I can play with you; You're the sky's own sister, but you're better than a star, For you live right down here with me, and not so high and far.

The Anemone

Thy charm, pale, modest, timid one, Is this, that thou dost ever shun The public walk, and to the sun Dost show an open heart, Which does not fear the brightest ray, That's darted from the eye of day, Will aught of secret stain betray, Or find a double part. And thou hast never been beguiled To quit the simple, quiet wild, Where nature placed her modest child To worship her alone. Thou dost not ask the brow of toil To shed its costly dew, to spoil The bed of flee, untortured soil, Which thou hast made thine own. And now, if I were hence to take Thee, root and stem, it would but make Thee homesick—and the spell would break, That's round the desert gem. So, I will set me down and look On thy fair leaves, my little book, To read the name of Him, who took Such care in forming them!

My Lady Anemone

Beneath soft snows harsh winter lingering Takes stand, betimes, against th' advancing spring To find itself betrayed before its flight — Within their midst that daintiest eremite, Th' anemone, dear April's solacing. Rare this, but rarer note doth nature ring When silvery locks, time's counterfeits, soft cling About a visage pink with vernal light Beneath soft snows! What lovelier fancy can she set a-wing? Here rifted age holds youth in th' opening; Here wisdom's hoary poll, in sweet despite, Is set to crown a face of pure delight — The wind-flower face I all too faintly sing Beneath soft snows.

I strolled along the beaten way, Where hoary cliffs uprear their heads, And all the firstlings of the May Were peeping from their leafy beds, When, dancing in its rocky frame, I saw th' columbine's flower of flame. Above a lichened niche it clung, Or did it leap from out a seam?— Some hidden fire had found a tongue And burst to light with vivid gleam. It thrilled the eye, it cheered the place, And gave the ledge a living grace. The redstart flashing up and down, The oriole whistling in the elm, The kinglet with his ruby crown— All wear the colors of thy realm; And starling, too, with glowing coals— So shine thy lamps by oak-tree boles. I saw them a-flaming Against the gray rocks; I saw them in couples, I saw them in flocks. They danced in the breezes, They glowed in the sun, They nodded and beckoned, Rejoiced every one. Some grew by the wayside, Some peered from the ledge, Some flamed from a crevice, And clung like a wedge; Some rooted in débris Of rocks and of trees, And all were inviting The wild banded bees. Nature knows well the use of foils, And knoweth how to recompense; There lurks a grace in all her toils And in her ruder elements; And oft doth gleam a tenderness The eye to charm, the ear to bless.

The Columbine

Still, still my eye will gaze long fixed on thee, Till I forget that I am called a man, And at thy side fast-rooted seem to be, And the breeze comes my cheek with thine to fan. Upon this craggy hill our life shall pass, A life of summer days and summer joys, Nodding our honey-bells mid pliant grass In which the bee half hid his time employs; And here we'll drink with thirsty pores the rain, And turn dew-sprinkled to the rising sun, And look when in the flaming west again His orb across the heaven its path has run; Here left in darkness on the rocky steep, My weary eyes shall close like folding flowers in sleep.

Blue Hyacinths

In your Curled petals what ghosts Of blue headlands and seas, What perfumed immortal breath sighing Of Greece.

The Blue Gentians

The fairest blossoms ever bloom the last; For fleeting Summer, Mother of the flowers, Mindful her joyous, sunny reign will soon be past, Has deemed that, moved by beauties brighter, rarer, The Chill Destroyer of her happy hours Might step, perchance, aside and so would spare her. With fond, regretful eyes and saddened pride Upon her fragrant footprints back she looks Where bloomed the violets and the wild rose gleamed and died; And at the living gaze the murmurs run Through dells and vales, by rills and dancing brooks, Of blossoms laughing in the autumn sun. Their petals twist at morn and tipped with dew To warm noon yield and lift a fringe-lipped and Pure sapphired chalice of that deep and richer hue Than tint of sky or sea, beyond compare, That sprang to view when God first laid His hand Upon the cloud and left the rainbow there. They are the Gentians, left alone to face The unrelenting King of Snow and Rime By Summer fled and gone; these blossoms fit to grace The wondrous gardens washed by southern seas, Flung as a hostage to the Wintry Time, Bend, droop, and wither in the frosty breeze.

Fringed Gentian

God made a little gentian; It tried to be a rose And failed, and all the summer laughed. But just before the snows There came a purple creature That ravished all the hill; And summer hid her forehead, And mockery was still. The frosts were her condition; The Tyrian would not come Until the North evoked it. "Creator! shall I bloom?"

The Ground Laurel

I Love thee, pretty nursling Of vernal sun and rain; For thou art Flora's firstling, And leadest in her train. When far away I found thee It was an April morn; The chilling blast blew round thee, No bud had decked the thorn. And thou alone wert hiding The mossy rocks between, Where, just below them gliding, The Merrimack was seen. And while my hand was brushing The seary leaves from thee, It seemed that thou wert blushing To be disclosed to me. So modest, fair and fragrant, Where all was wild and rude, To cheer the lonely vagrant Who crossed thy solitude,— Thou didst reward my ramble By shining at my feet, When, over brake and bramble, I sought thy lone retreat,— As some sweet flower of pleasure Upon our path may bloom, 'Mid rocks and thorns that measure Our journey to the tomb!

The Lost Hyacinth

My hyacinth, my hyacinth At length has come to light! And round the stalk and purple buds The leaves are green and bright! Renewed in beauty it has broke From out the crumbling earth; And, when I thought it dead and gone, It has another birth! My hyacinth! my hyacinth! At last I've found thee out. Oh! where hast thou been hid so long? What hast thou been about? "I've been," the little hermit said, "Within my lowly cell; And joy I've had in quiet there, That tongue can never tell. "In sweet communion with the power To which alone I trust, I've worshipped long at nature's shrine, Abased below the dust. "This upper world I find a scene Of peril, change and strife; And from seclusion I must draw My sweetest draught of life. "I would not live, if ever thus, Uncovered to the glare Of yonder sun, I must be brushed By ev'ry vagrant air. "'T is best for me, and best for thee That I should pass from sight, To be a while in loneliness, And hidden from the light. "For I should lose my greatest worth By being always here; Thou would'st not feel the joy thou hast To see me re-appear. "From calm and humble solitude My first attractions flow, And, but for these, I were but poor, Without a charm to show. "But I've come back to stand a while In beauty to thine eye; And when my flowers have gladdened thee, They'll be content to die. "And, while thy hyacinth her sweets Shall pour from every bell, Remember she her fragrance gained Within the lowly cell!"

My nosegays are for captives

My nosegays are for captives; Dim, long-expectant eyes, Fingers denied the plucking, Patient till paradise, To such, if they should whisper Of morning and the moor, They bear no other errand, And I, no other prayer.

Neighbor Chickory

Where the stamping horses pass And the dust is in the grass, By the roadside bare and hot Gracing each unlovely spot Lo! before our weary eyes Shines the blue of summer skies Gleaming like an azure star Where the fiercest sunbeams are, Neighbor Chickory bestows Such a sense of cool repose, In the noon-tide's hottest glare It is always evening there. Oh, to learn the conquering grace Of that blossom's tender face! Thus victoriously may I Where the choking dust-clouds fly And life's clamors never cease Bring the cooling sense of peace.

Spear Thistle

Where the broad sheepwalk bare and brown [Yields] scant grass pining after showers, And winds go fanning up and down The little strawy bents and nodding flowers, There the huge thistle, spurred with many thorns, The suncrackt upland's russet swells adorns. Not undevoid of beauty there they come, Armed warriors, waiting neither suns nor showers, Guarding the little clover plots to bloom While sheep nor oxen dare not crop their flowers Unsheathing their own knobs of tawny flowers When summer cometh in her hottest hours. The pewit, swopping up and down And screaming round the passer bye, Or running oer the herbage brown With copple crown uplifted high, Loves in its clumps to make a home Where danger seldom cares to come. The yellowhammer, often prest For spot to build and be unseen, Will in its shelter trust her nest When fields and meadows glow with green; And larks, though paths go closely bye, Will in its shade securely lie. The partridge too, that scarce can trust The open downs to be at rest, Will in its clumps lie down, and dust And prune its horseshoe-circled breast, And oft in shining fields of green Will lay and raise its brood unseen. The sheep when hunger presses sore May nip the clover round its nest; But soon the thistle wounding sore Relieves it from each brushing guest, That leaves a bit of wool behind, The yellowhammer loves to find. The horse will set his foot and bite Close to the ground lark's guarded nest And snort to meet the prickly sight; He fans the feathers of her breast— Yet thistles prick so deep that he Turns back and leaves her dwelling free. Its prickly knobs the dews of morn Doth bead with dressing rich to see, When threads doth hang from thorn to thorn Like the small spinner's tapestry; And from the flowers a sultry smell Comes that agrees with summer well. The bee will make its bloom a bed, The humble bee in tawny brown; And one in jacket fringed with red Will rest upon its velvet down When overtaken in the rain, And wait till sunshine comes again. And there are times when travel goes Along the sheep tracks' beaten ways, Then pleasure many a praise bestows Upon its blossoms' pointed rays, When other things are parched beside And hot day leaves it in its pride.

When April winds arrive And the soft rains are here, Some morning by the roadside These Fairy folk appear. We never see their coming, However sharp our eyes; Each year as if by magic They take us by surprise. Along the ragged woodside And by the green spring-run, Their small white heads are nodding And twinkling in the sun. They crowd across the meadow In innocence and mirth, As if there were no sorrow In all this wondrous earth. So frail, so unregarded, And yet about them clings A sorcery of welcome,— The joy of common things. Perhaps their trail of beauty Across the pasture sod In jubilant procession Is where an angel trod.

A Lotus Bloom

Was the dream thou wovest me, But a blossom-fantasy? When it faded from my brain, Flushed it into flower again? When thy blossom withereth — When the fairer flower of Death Weaves its vision — shall the dream Mine or thine, returning, seem?

When April's in her genial mood, And leafy smells are in the wood, In sunny nook, by bank or brook, Behold this lovely sisterhood. A spirit sleeping in the mould, And tucked about by leafage old, Opens an eye blue as the sky, And trusting takes the sun or cold. Before a leaf is on the tree, Or booms the roving bumblebee, She hears a voice, "Arise, rejoice!" In furry vestments cometh she. Before the oven-bird has sung, Or thrush or chewmk found a tongue, She ventures out and looks about, And once again the world is young. Sometimes she stands in white array, Sometimes as pink as dawning day, Or every shade of azure made, And oft with breath as sweet as May. Sometimes she bideth all alone, And lifts her face beside a stone,— A child at play along the way, When all her happy mates have flown. Again in bands she beams around, And brightens all the Uttered ground, And holds the gaze in leafless ways— A concert sweet without a sound. Like robin's song or bluebird's wing, Or throats that make the marshes ring, Her beaming face and winsome grace Are greetings from the heart of spring.

Red Carnations

One time in Arcadie's fair bowers There met a bright immortal band, To choose their emblems from the flowers That made an Eden of that land. Sweet Constancy, with eyes of hope, Strayed down the garden path alone And gathered sprays of heliotrope, To place in clusters at her zone. True Friendship plucked the ivy green, Forever fresh, forever fair. Inconstancy with flippant mien The fading primrose chose to wear. One moment Love the rose paused by; But Beauty picked it for her hair. Love paced the garden with a sigh,— He found no fitting emblem there. Then suddenly he saw a flame; A conflagration turned to bloom. It even put the rose to shame, Both in its beauty and perfume. He watched it, and it did not fade; He plucked it, and it brighter grew. In cold or heat, all undismayed, It kept its fragrance and its hue. "Here deathless love and passion sleep," He cried, "embodied in this flower. This is the emblem I will keep." Love wore carnations from that hour.

O, patient creature with a peasant face, Burnt by the summer sun, begrimed with stains, And standing humbly in the dusty lanes! There seems a mystery in thy work and place, Which crowns thee with significance and grace; Whose is the milk that fills thy faithful veins? What royal nursling comes at night and drains Unscorned the food of the plebeian race? By day I mark no living thing which rests On thee save butterflies of gold and brown, Who turn from flowers that are more fair, more sweet, And crowding eagerly sink fluttering down And hang, like jewels flashing in the heat, Upon thy splendid rounded purple breasts.

The Jasmine

Oh, do you love the jasmine, That flower of the heart, Of dreams and rapture redolent, Nor far from tears apart? That blossom born of earth? What miracle 'twould be! I dare imagine other birth— Behold my theory: A jasmine flower of heaven Came down the Milky Way; And finding here such piteous need, Thought merciful to stay.

The Waking Year

A lady red upon the hill Her annual secret keeps; A lady white within the field In placid lily sleeps! The tidy breezes with their brooms Sweep vale, and hill, and tree! Prithee, my pretty housewives! Who may expected be? The neighbors do not yet suspect! The woods exchange a smile — Orchard, and buttercup, and bird — In such a little while! And yet how still the landscape stands, How nonchalant the wood, As if the resurrection Were nothing very odd!

Treasure-Trove

Dotting the edge of the country road Near where the farmer his harvest sowed, There bloom in all their shining array The dainty Fivefingers, resplendent and gay. Clustering close in a worm-fence nook, Out of their emerald covert they look And spangle the green of the velvety grass, Nodding their heads to the people who pass. They are the bravest flowers of May, For, vaunting their wealth in a debonair way, High in their spreading hands they hold Their lavish treasure of jewels and gold. All along where the roadways run They bow to th' imperial orb of the sun, And fill their cups with the dews and the showers To drink a health to the passing hours.

Pink, small, and punctual, Aromatic, low, Covert in April, Candid in May, Dear to the moss, Known by the knoll, Next to the robin In every human soul. Bold little beauty, Bedecked with thee, Nature forswears Antiquity.

The Sleeping Flowers

"Whose are the little beds," I asked, "Which in the valleys lie?" Some shook their heads, and others smiled, And no one made reply. "Perhaps they did not hear," I said; "I will inquire again. Whose are the beds, the tiny beds So thick upon the plain?" "'T is daisy in the shortest; A little farther on, Nearest the door to wake the first, Little leontodon. "'T is iris, sir, and aster, Anemone and bell, Batschia in the blanket red, And chubby daffodil." Meanwhile at many cradles Her busy foot she plied, Humming the quaintest lullaby That ever rocked a child. "Hush! Epigea wakens! — The crocus stirs her lids, Rhodora's cheek is crimson, — She's dreaming of the woods." Then, turning from them, reverent, "Their bed-time 't is," she said; "The bumble-bees will wake them When April woods are red."

Resurrection

Daffodil, lily, and crocus, They stir, they break from the sod, They are glad of the sun, and they open Their golden hearts to God. They, and the wilding families,— Windflower, violet, may,— They rise from the long, long dark To the ecstasy of day. We, scattering troops and kindreds, From out of the stars wind-blown To this wayside corner of space, This world that we call our own,— We, of the hedgerows of Time, We, too, shall divide the sod, Emerge to the light, and blossom, With our hearts held up to God.

The Jonquil

Through its brown and withered bulb How the white germ felt the sun In the dark mould gently stirring His spring children one by one! Thrilled with heat, it split the husk, Shot a green blade up to light, And unfurled its orange petals In the old enchanter's sight. One step more and it had floated On the palpitating noon Winged and free, a butterfly Soaring from the rent cocoon. But it could not leave its earth, And the May-dew's tender tears,— So it wavers there forever 'Twixt the green and azure spheres.

March and April

Stay in, stay in, O flowers, stay in, Spring can't begin, it can't begin! For wild rough March rides all about, Don't put your little noses out; Small heads should keep safe under ground, Or March will catch you riding round. Come out, come out, O flowers, come out! Wild March is gone with rush and shout, And April's eager now to play, Come out, for March rode far away, And Spring is dancing all around! Come up, dear seeds, above the ground!

Emblem of earthly scenes which give delight, Which fade away, no more to charm the sight; Emblem of pleasure—phantom of a day— Which fade to-morrow in the sun's bright ray. But flowers in Paradise, unfading bloom; No frosts are there, no winter of the tomb, But gentle dews; and summer all the year, Descends from heaven, to flourish ever there. Sweet flowers are strew'd upon this earth awhile To soothe our sorrows, and our griefs beguile To give taste superior thoughts of heaven, And thus to muse upon the promise given. Our friends, who rang'd with us to gather flow'rs, Are gone, or dead,—the past were pleasing hours— Lament not—for in Paradise they bloom, And find a wreath for us beyond the tomb. Flowers of a day—I look on thee with joy, Though all thy beauty time will soon destroy; Yet hope, upon thy softness, fondly sings, Touch'd with the beauty of immortal things.

How the Flowers Grow

This is how the flowers grow; I have watched them, and I know. First, above the ground is seen A tiny blade of purest green, Reaching up and peeping forth East and west, and south and north. Then it shoots up day by day, Growing in a curious way Round a blossom, which it keeps Warm and cozy while it sleeps. Then the sunbeams find their way To the sleeping bud and say, “We are children of the sun, Sent to wake thee, little one.” And the leaflet, opening wide, Shows the tiny bud inside, Peeping with half-opened eye On the bright and sunny sky. Breezes from the west and south Lay their kisses on its mouth; Till the petals all are grown, And the bud’s a flower blown. This is how the flowers grow; I have watched them and I know.

The Poor Little Rich Flower

It's better to be a buttercup out in the grass Where a hundred children pass, And at evening drink the dew, Than be you, Poor little rich flower, Shut up in a lady's bower. Does the lady look your way Any day? Ever stoop to you and bless? Give your head a soft caress? You are such a tiny part Of all her things. Her heart A crowded palace is; but O, to know the bliss Of being meadow-glad—like this— You should be out in the grass Where the happy children pass— We would like to welcome you To our sunshine, rain, and dew, Flower, in a lady's bower.

With Flowers

South winds jostle them, Bumblebees come, Hover, hesitate, Drink, and are gone. Butterflies pause On their passage Cashmere; I, softly plucking, Present them here!

Roadside Flowers

We are the roadside flowers, Straying from garden grounds, — Lovers of idle hours, Breakers of ordered bounds. If only the earth will feed us, If only the wind be kind, We blossom for those who need us, The stragglers left behind. And lo, the Lord of the Garden, He makes his sun to rise, And his rain to fall with pardon On our dusty paradise. On us he has laid the duty, — The task of the wandering breed,— To better the world with beauty, Wherever the way may lead. Who shall inquire of the season, Or question the wind where it blows? We blossom and ask no reason. The Lord of the Garden knows.

The Bee and the Blossoms

"Why stand ye idle, blossoms bright, The livelong summer day?" "Alas! we labour all the night For what thou takest away."

The Fear of Flowers

The nodding oxeye bends before the wind, The woodbine quakes lest boys their flowers should find, And prickly dogrose spite of its array Can't dare the blossom-seeking hand away, While thistles wear their heavy knobs of bloom Proud as a warhorse wears its haughty plume, And by the roadside danger's self defy; On commons where pined sheep and oxen lie In ruddy pomp and ever thronging mood It stands and spreads like danger in a wood, And in the village street where meanest weeds Can't stand untouched to fill their husks with seeds, The haughty thistle oer all danger towers, In every place the very wasp of flowers.

The Seedling

As a quiet little seedling Lay within its darksome bed, To itself it fell a-talking, And this is what it said: "I am not so very robust, But I'll do the best I can;" And the seedling from that moment Its work of life began. So it pushed a little leaflet Up into the light of day, To examine the surroundings And show the rest the way. The leaflet liked the prospect, So it called its brother, Stem; Then two other leaflets heard it, And quickly followed them. To be sure, the haste and hurry Made the seedling sweat and pant; But almost before it knew it It found itself a plant. The sunshine poured upon it, And the clouds they gave a shower; And the little plant kept growing Till it found itself a flower. Little folks, be like the seedling, Always do the best you can; Every child must share life's labor Just as well as every man. And the sun and showers will help you Through the lonesome, struggling hours, Till you raise to light and beauty Virtue's fair, unfading flowers.

Pretty Flower

Truly thou lovest pretty flowers, For pretty flower, thyself, thou art. May I, if tenderly I pluck thee, Make fast thy tendrils to my heart— Pretty Flower? And should Fate deem thee answer, pluck me! Would one of meager courage dare To place the hand he feels unworthy Upon a spotless lily, fair, Pretty Flower?

The White Flower

She did not know when she gave thee me, How sweet a comforter thou wouldst be To her pensive friend in the secret need, Which the traveller feels from the tramp of steed, The wavering coach, and a lonely hour In a stranger group, my fair White Flower! When the rumbling sound of the wheels was heard, And made me hasten the parting word, She plucked thee up from thy native place, While the soul looked full from her speaking face, And all she felt at the long farewell, She left for her tender flower to tell. Thou beautiful thing! 't was a holy thought, To give me a work which my Maker wrought; So pure and perfect to soothe the mind, In the rattling cage as I sit confined, While it rolls along in the beaten track, And my forth goes on, but my heart goes back. I'll cast my mantle 'twixt thee and harm, From a neighborly skirt, a hostile arm, Or a cape astray, whose fall, or brush Thy delicate head might wound, or crush; And then, my small, but eloquent friend, We'll sweetly commune, to my journey's end. For He will carry me safely there, Who made thy slenderest root his care!— He formed the eye that delights to see, And the soul that loves to contemplate thee, We both are the works of his wondrous power; In silence we'll praise him, my sweet White Flower.

The Flowers in the Cemetery

Here do ye find us steady to our trust, As sentinels, who stand to guard the dead. Each has her charge to watch the sacred dust, Of some one sleeping in the dreamless bed. The Flowers in the Cemetery Hannah Flagg Gould “

Peace keeps the place where we spring up and bloom. Kind, gentle angels hover round, to spread Our tender leaves, and bow us by the tomb To pour our freshest odors o'er the dead. Soft, silent air supplies our vital breath. It wafts no sound of tumult, mirth, or strife, Where, for the mourners, in the land of Death, Beneath his throne we open into life. Praise to our Maker is the holy part Assigned to us; and, while his power we show, With soothing skill to reach the stricken heart, Awhile to lull the throbbing pulse of woe. We to the eye, that on our native sod Retires unseen to shed the dew of grief, Attest the presence of a perfect God, Whose glory shines on every opening leaf. Who then our beauty can behold, nor feel Something, not sadness, but to joy allied, Upon the wounded bosom sweetly steal, Like balm by spirit-ministers applied? Tell us, ye sad ones, if it be not thus; Do ye not own this soothing art is ours, When ye come out to breathe your sighs to us, And count your sorrows to your cherished flowers? Here do ye find us steady to our trust, As sentinels, who stand to guard the dead. Each has her charge to watch the sacred dust, Of some one sleeping in the dreamless bed. Well is our high and solemn office done. Since we were planted, not a foot has crossed A spot that we have pointed out as one Where rests a friend, that ye have loved and lost. Night falls around us, like a mourner's veil; But, though our beauties in the dimness fade, Still does the pure, free essence we exhale Ascend and penetrate the deepest shade. If thus the better part of those you weep, From death and darkness, rose to life and light; Then lift your hearts from all that earth could keep To that blest world where you may re-unite. Such is the part that we, the humble Flowers, Perform; and such the solace we would give To man, who, while we bloom our few short hours, Has yet a whole eternity to live!

With a Flower

When roses cease to bloom, dear, And violets are done, When bumble-bees in solemn flight Have passed beyond the sun, The hand that paused to gather Upon this summer's day Will idle lie, in Auburn, — Then take my flower, pray!

To The Bee Balm

Unmoved I saw you blooming, Your crimson cap uplooming Above the jewel weed; 'T is true I passed unheeding, Unmindful of your pleading, Until she gave you heed. But when she paused and plucked you, And in her bosom tucked you, And filled her girlish hands, New beauty filled your measure, You shone a woodland treasure Amid the floral clans. Your martial look grew tender, More winsome was your splendor With her beside the stream; Rare gift to charm she brought you, With her own graces fraught you, Retouched your glowing beam. I soon forgot my trouting, Repented of my flouting Your brave and festive look; I saw in you new meaning, A nodding or a leaning Beside the purling brook. Oh, day I long shall cherish, Nor let one vision perish That filled each sunny hour. The phoebe's mossy chamber, The pool like liquid amber, That mirrored maid and flower.

The Cardinal Flower

Like peal of a bugle Upon the still night, So flames her deep scarlet In dim forest light. A heart-throb of color Lit up the dim nook, A dash of deep scarlet The dark shadows shook. Thou darling of August, Thou flame of her flame, 'T is only bold Autumn Thy ardor can tame.

When Trumpet-flowers begin to blow The Thistle-downs take heed, For then they know 'tis time to go And plant the wingèd seed.

Summer for thee grant I may be When summer days are flown! Thy music still when whippoorwill And oriole are done! For thee to bloom, I'll skip the tomb And sow my blossoms o'er! Pray gather me, Anemone, Thy flower forevermore!

A Cavalcade

"Thistle-down, Thistle-down, whither away? Will you not longer abide?" "Nay, we have wedded the winds to-day, And home with the rovers we ride."

As children bid the guest good-night

As children bid the guest good-night, And then reluctant turn, My flowers raise their pretty lips, Then put their nightgowns on. As children caper when they wake, Merry that it is morn, My flowers from a hundred cribs Will peep, and prance again.

I hide myself within my flower, That wearing on your breast, You, unsuspecting, wear me too — And angels know the rest. I hide myself within my flower, That, fading from your vase, You, unsuspecting, feel for me Almost a loneliness.

The Autumn Thistles

The morning sky is white with mist, the earth White with the inspiration of the dew. The harvest light is on the hills anew, And cheer in the grave acres' fruitful girth. Only in this high pasture is there dearth, Where the gray thistles crowd in ranks austere, As if the sod, close-cropt for many a year, Brought only bane and bitterness to birth. But in the crisp air's amethystine wave How the harsh stalks are washed with radiance now, How gleams the harsh turf where the crickets lie Dew-freshened in their burnished armour brave! Since earth could not endure nor heaven allow Aught of unlovely in the morn's clear eye.

When a flower is exposed To the chill night air and dies, Is this the flower's fault? "Of course not," is the quick reply; It could not help itself, And so it had to wilt and die. But when a woman, like a flower, In the path of harm is thrown, And to its evil strength succumbs, All the world looks down on her; While another who was not tempted Gets praise for virtuousness, When she was but the flower That had been kept inside. Oh, let us pity—aid, if we can— The flowers of human kind Who, like the flowers of the field, Are too weak to weather through The evils that encompass them.

The Prostrate Pink

Alas! alas! a silly Pink, To climb so fast, and never think How feeble was my trust! I sought a high and airy throne; Aspired too far to stand alone; And now, in lowliness, must own My kindred with the dust! O, would my stem had snapped in twain, And saved me from the lingering pain Of being thus abased! 'T is worse than death to lie so low, While all the laughing flowers must know, Ambition caused my overthrow, And brought me here disgraced! My native spot is far behind! Nor can I turn and hope to find Again my parent root, Where, fain my blushing head I'd screen Among the leaves so thick and green, Whence I, a timid bud, was seen In infancy to shoot. My beauteous form and hue, so bright, I thought could tempest, hail and blight And insect's touch defy. I grew in boldness—meekness fled; I burst my cup, my odors shed With lavish haste; my petals spread, And courted every eye. I little knew how great the fault Myself to flatter and exalt, Until I found, too late, My head grew giddy with the height; The sun-beam seemed a whirling light; I lost my balance—lost my sight; And here I met my fate. My sister Flowers, take heed! take heed! Your loveliness will ever need Protection from the blast. Be cautious what your beauties court, Whereon you venture, how you sport; And if a straw is your support, See where you may be cast. Your charms are highest half-concealed; Your sweets are dearest, when revealed With modesty and fear; And she, who quits the leafy shade That nature for her shelter made, May pine and languish, moan and fade, Like her who sorrows here.

The Death of the Flowers

The melancholy days are come, The saddest of the year, Of wailing winds, and naked woods, And meadows brown and sear. Heaped in the hollows of the grove The autumn leaves lie dead; They rustle to the eddying gust, And to the rabbit's tread. The robin and the wren are flown, And from the shrubs the jay, And from the wood top calls the crow Through all the gloomy day. Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, That lately sprang and stood In brighter light and softer airs, A beauteous sisterhood? Alas! they all are in their graves; The gentle race of flowers Are lying in their lowly beds With the fair and good of ours. The rain is falling where they lie; But the cold November rain Calls not from out the gloomy earth The lovely ones again. The windflower and the violet, They perished long ago, And the brier rose and the orchis died Amid the summer's glow; But on the hill, the golden-rod, And the aster in the wood, And the yellow sunflower by the brook, In autumn beauty stood, Till fell the frost from the clear, cold heaven, As falls the plague on men, And the brightness of their smile was gone From upland, glade, and glen, And now, when comes the calm, mild day, As still such days will come, To call the squirrel and the bee From out their winter home; When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, Though all the trees are still, And twinkle in the smoky light The waters of the rill, The south wind searches for the flowers Whose fragrance late he bore, And sighs to find them in the wood And by the stream no more. And then I think of one, who in Her youthful beauty died, The fair, meek blossom that grew up And faded by my side. In the cold, moist earth we laid her, When the forest cast the leaf, And we wept that one so lovely Should have a life so brief; Yet not unmeet it was that one, Like that young friend of ours, So gentle and so beautiful, Should perish with the flowers.

A Laughing Chorus

Oh, such a commotion under the ground When March called, "Ho, there! ho!" Such spreading of rootlets far and wide, Such whispering to and fro; And, "Are you ready?" the Snowdrop asked, "'Tis time to start, you know." "Almost, my dear," the Scilla replied; "I'll follow as soon as you go." Then, "Ha! ha! ha!" a chorus came Of laughter soft and low, From the millions of flowers under the ground, Yes—millions—beginning to grow. O, the pretty brave things! through the coldest days, Imprisoned in walls of brown, They never lost heart though the blast shrieked loud, And the sleet and the hail came down, But patiently each wrought her beautiful dress, Or fashioned her beautiful crown; And now they are coming to brighten the world, Still shadowed by Winter's frown; And well may they cheerily laugh, "Ha! ha!" In a chorus soft and low, The millions of flowers hid under the ground Yes—millions—beginning to grow.

Trailing Arbutus

I wandered lonely where the pine-trees made Against the bitter East their barricade, And, guided by its sweet Perfume, I found, within a narrow dell, The trailing spring flower tinted like a shell Amid dry leaves and mosses at my feet. From under dead boughs, for whose loss the pines Moaned ceaseless overhead, the blossoming vines Lifted their glad surprise, While yet the bluebird smoothed in leafless trees His feathers ruffled by the chill sea-breeze, And snow-drifts lingered under April skies. As, pausing, o'er the lonely flower I bent, I thought of lives thus lowly clogged and pent, Which yet find room, Through care and cumber, coldness and decay, To lend a sweetness to the ungenial day And make the sad earth happier for their bloom.

Home Memories

A few of the springtime flowers, And the summer blossoms sweet, Agreed, at the early autumn, In a locust grove to meet, And there to hold communion, By the light of the setting sun, And each relate or mention Some kind act they had done. And he whose deed was noblest Should, at the close of day, Be colonel of the regiment, And lead the ranks away. So, one by one I watched them Assemble where the trees Had lowered their limbs to listen And halted every breeze. A Rose in the richest satin, With a bud to her bonnet tied, Was first to break the silence That reigned on every side. “I lived with a lovely lady, In a handsome house of brick, And went with her each morning, To wait upon the sick. “I’ve leaned beside the pillows, Where wounded soldiers lay, And I wept at the funeral service, Of an orphan child to-day.” “I bloomed in an humble garden, Where an old man used to look,” Said the Johnquil, “ere the snow-drift His window-sill forsook.” “A poor bee shivered homeward One night,” the Tulip said, “Fell through my scarlet curtains, And died upon my bed.” “I looked in at a window, And made two lovers kiss,” The Pansy owned, and laughing Said it was not amiss. “I went into a palace,” The Lily then replied, “And held the veil that evening Of a happy-hearted bride.” “I sweetened the room of a poet, And o’er his coffin wept,” The Heliotrope low whispered, And back in the shadows crept. “O, that was very noble,” Exclaimed the Golden-rod, “I tried to gather the sunshine And hold it up to God. “To make the world less sober, To make the heart less sad, Was all the mission, brethren, Your humble servant had.” * * * * * In the ranks of that floral army That marched at the close of day, That sunny-featured blossom Was the one that led the way.

Contentment

"Brown and yellow, and yellow and brown, Are choicest colors for my crown." The sunflower said; "I am content, I want no other ornament." "Yellow and white," the daisy spake, "Were made, I think, for my own sake; I scarce would want to show my face If other tints should take their place." "Blue as heaven draped on high, Blue as bluest spot of sky— It is the shade I love the best," The violet said, with hearty zest.

White Foxglove

Here in a leaning tower Brown bees are at home. This is the moon-loved flower. Like cells of honey-comb These taper and are brimmed With savors of wild dew. Oh, bees gold-laced and limbed, I envy you!

Flowers Laugh and Talk and Play

Flowers laugh and talk and play, Don't believe it—Do you say? You've never seen them doing so?— Well, perhaps, you've seen them grow!

I Wonder Did Each Flower Know?

I wonder did each flower know As well as now just how to grow In that far first early spring When the world was made. Or did they make mistakes as I Make very often when I try At first, and try again,—perhaps just so, As you and I, they learned to grow.

Flower-music

Yellow bells and purple bells and blue bells all a-chiming, Mariposa lily bells and bells of rosy hue,— What could more inspire us than your guerdon for our climbing? Ring aloud, sweet blossom-bells, and we will come to you. Perfume is your music; little sunbeams, you're the ringers. Pull away right lustily with chubby hands of dew. Waft the key-note lightly to the choirs of dreaming singers. Begin the morning jubilee—the robins wait for you!

The Grassy-Meadow-School

In the grassy meadow school All the flowers learn the rule, Every flower stands up straight, Not a one is cross or late, Straggling in the schoolhouse gate. Not a flower has a book; But the teacher, Meadow Brook, Tells the lesson all the day, Talking in her meadow way— (You may think it's only play!) But it's serious, indeed, Teaching every flower and seed. For the flowers in a row Learn what but the wisest know, That the best thing is to grow!

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Pretty Poetry For Everyday

Flower Poems

21 Beautifully Short Flower Poems

Posted by Victoria
February 2, 2023
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Inside: Beautifully short flower poems that show you the true beauty of nature.

If you’re a nature guy or gal, you know that some of the most intricately detailed specimens in nature are flowers. They are so beautiful and so effortless, as with anything that grows naturally, and they inspire so many emotions.

There’s a flower that represents every kind of relationship, every kind of love, and every season of life. You can find a flower for anyone for any occasion and it will speak volumes to the love and thought you give to that person. As you flower shop, consider adding a card to the flowers you choose to accompany the gift with some words about the flower itself. It’s easy to know what to write in your card with these short f lower poem ideas that you can copy in a moment.

Maybe you’re not giving flowers but instead you are simply a flower lover or want to write a card to someone who is. This is a perfect use for flower poems as well, and I think these will do the trick for whatever your purpose is.

Creating artwork with these poems or hanging one on the wall in your home can be great ideas as well as to use these.

Something I’ve learned over time is that everyone loves flowers. Even people who say they don’t. My mother always says, “they don’t last very long, I don’t need them,” but I know that on the occasion my dad has come home with flowers, she feels so special. Just to have them on her counter as a reminder that she is loved and thought about.

Flowers are so simple but hold so much weight and something so special for something that grows on its own in nature.

Check out these flower poems to remember how sweet a simple flower really is.

What Do Different Flowers Represent

Whether you’re going to a bridal shower, a birthday, a funeral, or visiting someone’s home for the first time, there’s a flower to represent the way that you value them. They make a great gift for anyone and everyone, and I know you’re going to find the right flower for the occasion.

But in order to find the right flower for what you need for your friend (or for yourself) you need a pretty hefty guide to what different flowers mean. So here’s a complete guide before we get into some of these poems about them so you know where they come from and what they represent in nature and in poetry.

Tulips Orange: Understanding and appreciation. Pink: Love, less intense than red. Yellow: Happiness. Red: Declaration of love.

Peonies: Romance and marriage.

Lilies: Generally sympathy flowers, so mainly seen at funerals. They can also mean rebirth so the can be used in happy scenarios, but mainly in mournful ones.

Roses Coral: Friendship. Yellow: Technically these represent infidelity. But since yellow in the floral world is more of a friendship color, it’s acceptable to gift to your friends. Pink: Grace and gentleness. White: Purity and innocence. Red: Romance, of course. The perfect go-to gift for your special someone that will never get old.

Daisies: Innocence.

Gardenia: Revealing a crush.

Marigolds: For those in mourning.

Of course there are so many other flowers types and colors, but at the foundation of the flowers you tend to find while flower shopping, these are some of the most common that you’re going to run into daily.

Beautiful Poems About Flowers

Some men never think of it. You did. You’d come along And say you’d nearly brought me flowers But something had gone wrong.The shop was closed. Or you had doubts – The sort that minds like ours Dream up incessantly. You thought I might not want your flowers.It made me smile and hug you then. Now I can only smile. But, look, the flowers you nearly brought Have lasted all this while.

By Wendy Cope

2. Please Don’t

tell the flowers—they think the sun loves them. The grass is under the same simple-minded impression

about the rain, the fog, the dew. And when the wind blows, it feels so good they lose control of themselves

and swobtoggle wildly around, bumping accidentally into their slender neighbors. Forgetful little lotus-eaters,

solar-powered hydroholics, drawing nourishment up through stems into their thin green skin,

high on the expensive chemistry of mitochondrial explosion, believing that the dirt loves them, the night, the stars—

reaching down a little deeper with their pale albino roots, all Dizzy Gillespie with the utter sufficiency of everything.

They don’t imagine lawn mowers, the four stomachs of the cow, or human beings with boots who stop to marvel

at their exsquisite flexibility and color. They persist in their soft-headed

hallucination of happiness. But please don’t mention it. Not yet. Tell me what would you possibly gain

from being right?

By Tony Hoagland

3. I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud

I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o’er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd, A host, of golden daffodils; Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky way, They stretched in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay: Ten thousand saw I at a glance, Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they Out-did the sparkling waves in glee: A poet could not but be gay, In such a jocund company: I gazed—and gazed—but little thought What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood, They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude; And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils.

By William Wordsworth

4. The Flower That Smiles To-Day

1. The flower that smiles to-day To-morrow dies; All that we wish to stay Tempts and then flies. What is this world’s delight? Lightning that mocks the night, Brief even as bright. 2. Virtue, how frail it is! Friendship how rare! Love, how it sells poor bliss For proud despair! But we, though soon they fall, Survive their joy, and all Which ours we call. 3. Whilst skies are blue and bright, Whilst flowers are gay, Whilst eyes that change ere night Make glad the day; Whilst yet the calm hours creep, Dream thou—and from thy sleep Then wake to weep.

By Percy Shelley

5. Relentlessly Craving

poem, poem be strong like a shock wave, Grieg’s Concerto in A Minor put down roots, find the source, bloom, bear fruit come to life, poem, I need your blood

poem, poem be as perilously lovely as the drunken woman in the painting by Munch what counts are only the base colors, yellow, black, red what counts is fire

there is a time for hope and a time for despair

what counts is fire if you have no flesh you do not know love nor do you know death

poem, poem be in the sun in the eye of the world in the turning of bread into motion in the constant decay that is the condition of all synthesis in the blood

there is a time for hope and a time for despair what counts is fire and ice

poem, poem be like the dark night of the soul

By Julia Fiedorczuk

6. The Flower

Once in a golden hour I cast to earth a seed. Up there came a flower, The people said, a weed.

To and fro they went Thro’ my garden bower, And muttering discontent Cursed me and my flower.

Then it grew so tall It wore a crown of light, But thieves from o’er the wall Stole the seed by night.

Sow’d it far and wide By every town and tower, Till all the people cried, “Splendid is the flower!”

Read my little fable: He that runs may read. Most can raise the flowers now, For all have got the seed.

And some are pretty enough, And some are poor indeed; And now again the people Call it but a weed.

By Alfred Lord Tennyson

7. Thanks to Flowers

Thanks to flowers blooming in paintings, on carpets, pottery, fabrics of dresses and draperies or wherever the real or invented colors and shapes of flowers lift the mood of a scene, as they are snipped from bushes, gathered in cordless bunches, tied in ribbons or arranged in rare bouquets for precious vases. Perfect by nature for gift and centerpiece.

By Kate Farrell

Sweet & Short Flower Poems

8. The Lent Lily

‘Tis spring; come out to ramble The hilly brakes around, For under thorn and bramble About the hollow ground The primroses are found.

And there’s the windflower chilly With all the winds at play, And there’s the Lenten lily That has not long to stay And dies on Easter day.

And since till girls go maying You find the primrose still, And find the windflower playing With every wind at will, But not the daffodil,

Bring baskets now, and sally Upon the spring’s array, And bear from hill and valley The daffodil away That dies on Easter day.

By A.E Housman

The tulips are too excitable, it is winter here. Look how white everything is, how quiet, how snowed-in. I am learning peacefulness, lying by myself quietly As the light lies on these white walls, this bed, these hands. I am nobody; I have nothing to do with explosions. I have given my name and my day-clothes up to the nurses And my history to the anesthetist and my body to surgeons.

They have propped my head between the pillow and the sheet-cuff Like an eye between two white lids that will not shut. Stupid pupil, it has to take everything in. The nurses pass and pass, they are no trouble, They pass the way gulls pass inland in their white caps, Doing things with their hands, one just the same as another, So it is impossible to tell how many there are.

My body is a pebble to them, they tend it as water Tends to the pebbles it must run over, smoothing them gently. They bring me numbness in their bright needles, they bring me sleep. Now I have lost myself I am sick of baggage—— My patent leather overnight case like a black pillbox, My husband and child smiling out of the family photo; Their smiles catch onto my skin, little smiling hooks.

I have let things slip, a thirty-year-old cargo boat stubbornly hanging on to my name and address. They have swabbed me clear of my loving associations. Scared and bare on the green plastic-pillowed trolley I watched my teaset, my bureaus of linen, my books Sink out of sight, and the water went over my head. I am a nun now, I have never been so pure.

I didn’t want any flowers, I only wanted To lie with my hands turned up and be utterly empty. How free it is, you have no idea how free—— The peacefulness is so big it dazes you, And it asks nothing, a name tag, a few trinkets. It is what the dead close on, finally; I imagine them Shutting their mouths on it, like a Communion tablet.

The tulips are too red in the first place, they hurt me. Even through the gift paper I could hear them breathe Lightly, through their white swaddlings, like an awful baby. Their redness talks to my wound, it corresponds. They are subtle : they seem to float, though they weigh me down, Upsetting me with their sudden tongues and their color, A dozen red lead sinkers round my neck.

Nobody watched me before, now I am watched. The tulips turn to me, and the window behind me Where once a day the light slowly widens and slowly thins, And I see myself, flat, ridiculous, a cut-paper shadow Between the eye of the sun and the eyes of the tulips, And I have no face, I have wanted to efface myself. The vivid tulips eat my oxygen.

Before they came the air was calm enough, Coming and going, breath by breath, without any fuss. Then the tulips filled it up like a loud noise. Now the air snags and eddies round them the way a river Snags and eddies round a sunken rust-red engine. They concentrate my attention, that was happy Playing and resting without committing itself.

The walls, also, seem to be warming themselves. The tulips should be behind bars like dangerous animals; They are opening like the mouth of some great African cat, And I am aware of my heart: it opens and closes Its bowl of red blooms out of sheer love of me. The water I taste is warm and salt, like the sea, And comes from a country far away as health.

By Sylvia Plath

10. Flowers

They are autographs of angels, penned In Nature’s green-leaved book, in blended tints, Borrowed from rainbows and the sunset skies, And written everywhere–on plain and hill, In lonely dells, ‘mid crowded haunts of men; On the broad prairies, where no eye save God’s May read their silent, sacred mysteries. Thank God for flowers! They gladden human hearts; Seraphic breathings part their fragrant lips With whisperings of Heaven.

By Albert Laighton

11. Flower-Gathering

I left you in the morning, And in the morning glow, You walked a way beside me To make me sad to go. Do you know me in the gloaming, Gaunt and dusty grey with roaming? Are you dumb because you know me not, Or dumb because you know?

All for me? And not a question For the faded flowers gay That could take me from beside you For the ages of a day? They are yours, and be the measure Of their worth for you to treasure, The measure of the little while That I’ve been long away.

By Robert Frost

12. Tall Nettles

Tall nettles cover up, as they have done These many springs, the rusty harrow, the plough Long worn out, and the roller made of stone: Only the elm butt tops the nettles now.

This corner of the farmyard I like most: As well as any bloom upon a flower I like the dust on the nettles, never lost Except to prove the sweetness of a shower.

By Helen Thomas

You write to me about roses, About roses opening as roses die. Always, you say, there are roses, So that people get used to them And cease to wonder. Now I am on a hilltop, Bare, with a few pine trees Twisted by an inexhaustible wind, By a wind that is never tired, A wind that passes and passes and is never gone. I cannot think what it would be like for the pine trees If there were no wind. Your roses would not be happy on my hilltop. They would be scornful of my huckleberry bushes With their plain, blue fruit. They would not care for the white meadow-sweet That leans against a rock. Roses must have rich soil, And careful pruning. They must be sheltered from the wind and cold And have stakes to lean upon. They do not stand alone like the flames of vervain On my windy hilltop. Roses are gifts for lovers. Lovers have always had much to say about roses. When you sent me a rose Folded in a letter, Did you know I would open it on a hilltop Where the wind searches me As it does the pine trees And my skirts are brushing The fine flame of the vervain?

By Louise Driscoll

14. To the Flowers

Bright little day stars Scattered all over the earth, Ye drape the house of mourning And ye deck the hall of mirth.

Ye are gathered to grace the ballroom, Ye are borne to the house of prayer, Ye wither upon the snowy shroud, Ye fade in the bride’s jeweled hair.

Ye are relics of bygone ages, From Eden inherited, To gladden the homes of the living, And mourn on the graves of the dead.

By Martha Lavinia Hoffman

Pretty Poems

15. Praying

It doesn’t have to be the blue iris, it could be weeds in a vacant lot, or a few small stones; just pay attention, then patch

a few words together and don’t try to make them elaborate, this isn’t a contest but the doorway

into thanks, and a silence in which another voice may speak.

By Mary Oliver

16. Flowers

This morning I was walking upstairs from the kitchen, carrying your beautiful flowers, the flowers you

brought me last night, calla lilies and something else, I am not sure what to call them, white flowers,

of course you had no way of knowing it has been years since I bought white flowers—but now you have

and here they are again. I was carrying your flowers and a coffee cup and a soft yellow handbag and a book

of poems by a Chinese poet, in which I had just read the words “come or go but don’t just stand there

in the doorway,” as usual I was carrying too many things, you would have laughed if you saw me.

It seemed especially important not to spill the coffee as I usually do, as I turned up the stairs,

inside the whorl of the house as if I were walking up inside the lilies. I do not know how to hold all

the beauty and sorrow of my life.

By Cynthia Zarin

17. Flowers

They are fleeting. They are fragile. They require

little water. They’ll surprise you. They’ll remind you

that they aren’t and they are you.

By Wendy Videlock

18. Delicate But Captivating

Vibrant, beautiful, and full of life. She radiates positive energy while she absorbs the warm rays and brightness of the sun reflecting her image with purity, passion, and love. When drizzled with a little rain it begins to tickle with delight and blooms into a confident, vivacious flower. It will stand up Tall amongst million of flowers with confidence and humility above all. It takes a special gardener to nurture his find, as he knows that beauty so rare and precious will continue to to blossom given the love, time, and affection it truly deserves. He knows to cultivate it and treasure it so it becomes his utmost valuable treasure. Keeping her seeds from drifting to another garden will forever be his challenge and commitment to that once a delicate flower, but now a radiant and captivating woman. God’s greatest creation!

By Lissette Alvarez Napoli

19. I Will Go Out and Look at the Flowers

There was one of my kin (of another day) When the Riddle of Life defied her powers, And her fretted heart rebelled, would say, “I will go out and look at the flowers.” And after a while–like those who had quaffed Of the cup that Helen distilled in her bowers, Returned from the garden, she softly laughed– “I have been out to look at the flowers!” My heart is so ill with the growth of ills The world is sheaving, these harvest hours– The sword that smites, and the shell that kills, While Life lies charred ‘neath the burning towers! Nothing to do–it will be as Who wills? Helpless to aid, how my hurt soul cowers!.. Let me drink of the cup that pure Beauty distills– I will go out and look at the flowers!

By Edith Matilda Thomas

20. And Death Shall Have No Dominion Poem

And death shall have no dominion. Dead man naked they shall be one With the man in the wind and the west moon; When their bones are picked clean and the clean bones gone, They shall have stars at elbow and foot; Though they go mad they shall be sane, Though they sink through the sea they shall rise again; Though lovers be lost love shall not; And death shall have no dominion.

And death shall have no dominion. Under the windings of the sea They lying long shall not die windily; Twisting on racks when sinews give way, Strapped to a wheel, yet they shall not break; Faith in their hands shall snap in two, And the unicorn evils run them through; Split all ends up they shan’t crack; And death shall have no dominion.

And death shall have no dominion. No more may gulls cry at their ears Or waves break loud on the seashores; Where blew a flower may a flower no more Lift its head to the blows of the rain; Though they be mad and dead as nails, Heads of the characters hammer through daisies; Break in the sun till the sun breaks down, And death shall have no dominion.

By Dylan Thomas

21. My Pretty Rose Tree Poem

A flower was offered to me, Such a flower as May never bore; But I said ‘I’ve a pretty rose tree,’ And I passed the sweet flower o’er.

Then I went to my pretty rose tree, To tend her by day and by night; But my rose turned away with jealousy, And her thorns were my only delight.

By William Blake

Famous Short Bouquet Poems I Adore

1. The Flower That Smiles To-Day by Percy Shelley

The flower that smiles to-day

To-morrow dies;

All that we wish to stay

Tempts and then flies.

What is this world’s delight?

Lightning that mocks the night,

Brief even as bright.

2. The Lent Lily by A.E. Housman

And there’s the windflower chilly

With all the winds at play,

And there’s the Lenten lily

That has not long to stay

And dies on Easter day.

And since till girls go maying

You find the primrose still,

And find the windflower playing

With every wind at will,

But not the daffodil

3. Roses by George Eliot

You love the roses – so do I. I wish

The sky would rain down roses, as they rain

From off the shaken bush. Why will it not?

Then all the valley would be pink and white

And soft to tread on. They would fall as light

As feathers, smelling sweet; and it would be

Like sleeping and like waking, all at once!

Flowers and short flower poems are so sweet, but they carry a little punch. If you’re considering writing out or gifting someone a flower poem or want to buy them flowers, there’s so many options for you that speak about the tender beauty of a natural flower.

All of the different colors and shapes and characteristics of all of the different kinds of flowers really make them so precious. Read these sweet flower poems that are going to make you want to go to the garden section of your nearest home store.

Seeing all of the different people and life events that different flowers represent make me love them just a little more, considering that they are so much more relevant to life than we could imagine. Whatever phase of life you’re in, there’s a flower and short flower poem for you, so refresh your home with a vase of a bouquet of new flowers and remember how valued you are!

Lavenders are so sweet, read these lavender poems here .

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Travel Flowers Questions & Answers

Hi Everyone!! This article will share Travel Flowers Questions & Answers.

In my previous posts, I have also shared the questions and answers of Jack and The Beanstalk , The Bakers Village and The Magic Play House so, you can check these posts as well.

Travel Flowers Questions & Answers

Written by Marilyn Lott, the poem describes the beautiful flowers that the poetess sees by the roadside when she travels. This poem is a description of the joys of travelling and the spring season.

Word Galaxy

Nod – lower or raise one’s head slightly
Trail – path
Barns – large buildings used for storing grains
Midst – in the middle of
Dotted – scattered

Question 1: Fill in the blanks:

(a) The poet travel across the country and sees beautiful flowers along the roadside. (b) Big, yellow sunflowers sway in the gentle wind and greet the poet with a nod. (c) The poet sees clumps of lovely white flowers in the red soil by the side of the road. (d) Far from the roadside, the poet sees old barns in the middle of fields. There is dry grass and lots of flowers around the barns. (e) The poet loves travelling in spring time when it’s not too cold and there is gentle rain and flowers blooming everywhere.

Question 2: Read the line and answer the questions:

You see along the road ways.

(a) Where are the road ways?

Answer: The road ways are across the country.

(b) What does she see along the road ways?

Answer: She sees bright and cheerful flowers.

Question 3: Is the poet travelling through cities or the country side?

Answer: Yes, the poet is travelling through the country side.

Question 4: How do you know that the poetess is travelling through the country side?

Answer: We know this because she creates beautiful imagery by describing the natural beauty of yellow sunflowers, grassy fields and wild white flowers cropping up alongside a trail, the red soil.

Question 5: What is the weather like?

Answer: The weather is warm and sometimes, there are light spring showers.

Question 6: Read the line and answer the questions:

As they crop up in little spurts.

(a) What are they?

Answer: They are white flowers.

(b) Where does the poet see them?

Answer: They are growing alongside a trail.

Question 7: Read the line and answer the questions:

Nodding in the gentle winds.

(a) Who is nodding in the wind?

Answer: Beautiful sunflowers are nodding in the wind.

(b) Who are they nodding at?

Answer: They seem to be nodding at the poet.

(c) What do they seem to be saying?

Answer: They seem to be saying “hello” to her.

Question 8: Would you like to join the poet in her travels? Why/ why not?

Answer: It would be wonderful to join the poet as one can enjoy the beauty of nature and the fun of travelling. So, these were Travel Flowers Questions & Answers.

1. Rumi's "The Love Poems of Shams of Tabriz"

2. pablo neruda's "poems of love and the sea", 3. elizabeth bishop's "questions of travel".

When discussing love, it is impossible not to mention the renowned Persian poet, Rumi . In his collection "The Love Poems of Shams of Tabriz," Rumi explores the depths of love through the lens of his spiritual connection with his mentor, Shams of Tabriz. These poems not only depict the mystical bond between the two, but also serve as metaphors for the soul's journey in the quest for love and self-discovery.

Excerpt from "The Love Poems of Shams of Tabriz": "Lovers don't finally meet somewhere. They're in each other all along."

Rumi's words beautifully convey the idea that love is not merely an external connection, but a deep, intrinsic presence within us. This profound understanding of love's essence transcends physical boundaries, making it a universal experience that resonates with travelers on the journey of life.

Pablo Neruda, the Chilean poet and Nobel laureate, often sought solace and inspiration from the beauty of nature. In his collection "Poems of Love and the Sea," Neruda merges the themes of love and travel with vivid imagery from the ocean, creating a tapestry of emotions that captivates the reader's heart.

Excerpt from "Poems of Love and the Sea": "I love you as certain dark things are to be loved, in secret, between the shadow and the soul."

These lines by Neruda encapsulate the depth and secrecy of love, paralleling the vastness and enigma of the sea. Through his masterful use of metaphors, Neruda invites readers to embark on a poetic voyage, where love and travel become entwined in a dance of passion and longing.

While love and travel are often celebrated in a romantic light, Elizabeth Bishop's poem "Questions of Travel" offers a thought-provoking perspective. The poem explores the complex relationship between travel and the desire for connection, posing questions about the true meaning of exploration and the impact of distance on human relationships.

Excerpt from "Questions of Travel": "Should we have stayed at home and thought of here? Where should we be today? Is it right to be watching strangers in a play in this strangest of theatres?"

Bishop's words prompt readers to reflect on the longing for both physical and emotional journeys. They evoke a sense of curiosity about the human experience and challenge conventional notions of travel and love. This introspective piece invites readers to ponder the significance of being present in the moment, whether on a physical voyage or in the realm of the heart.

Love and travel are undoubtedly two of life's most profound experiences. Through poetry, we are transported to the realm where these themes intertwine, offering us a deeper understanding of our own emotions and connections with the world. Whether it's Rumi's spiritual love, Neruda's passionate sea, or Bishop's contemplation of travel's impact, these poems remind us of the power of words to capture the essence of love and the transformative nature of travel. So, next time you embark on a journey, carry a book of poetry with you, and let the verses guide your heart as you explore the world.

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Poems About Trains and Life: An Ode to Journeys

Poems About San Francisco: Exploring the City's Soul through Verse

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Engineering Communism: How Two Americans Spied for Stalin and Founded the Soviet Silicon Valley

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8 Zelenograd, the Soviet Silicon Valley, 1962–1965

Published: October 2005
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This chapter focuses on the construction of Zelenograd, the Soviet Silicon Valley, during the period from 1962–1965. The chapter reveals that Khrushchev signed the postanovlenie, or official decree, on August 8, 1962, authorizing the establishment of a center of microelectronics, to be called the “Scientific Center,” near Kryukovo railroad station. The satellite city was officially named Zelenograd (Green City) on January 15, 1963, by a decree of the Moscow Executive Committee. The first planned city in the Soviet Union, it was designed to accommodate approximately 65,000 people. Its designers had been influenced by the British New Town movement. Unlike in other Soviet industrial centers, where apartment buildings were often built adjacent to belching industrial smokestacks, living areas and factories were located in separate areas. Located 25 miles north of the Kremlin, Zelenograd was declared a part of Moscow.

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COMMENTS

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8 Zelenograd, the Soviet Silicon Valley, 1962-1965
Abstract. This chapter focuses on the construction of Zelenograd, the Soviet Silicon Valley, during the period from 1962-1965. The chapter reveals that Khrushchev signed the postanovlenie, or official decree, on August 8, 1962, authorizing the establishment of a center of microelectronics, to be called the "Scientific Center," near Kryukovo railroad station.